Mr. Blonde
11-02-2006, 03:40 AM
Cold breath fogs up the window pane, watching her from a distance. He dare not touch, for imagination is the key. His feet sink into the mud as the branches lightly tap at his head, the window pulling their strings like a natural marionette. The night is dark, a stalker’s friend, although he doesn’t consider himself a stalker. He thinks himself a watcher, an observer of humanity. He must look, but not touch. No, he must never touch.
The woman walks back into her bedroom. She’s wearing a towel now, although she’s not wet. Steam billows out from the door she just came out of. It was slightly ajar. She walks over to the bedside cabinet, and rifles through the drawers searching for something.
Her legs captivate him; so firm and yet so tender. Her lean physique shines through the towel, the hourglass figure of her body immaculate. This girl is special, he thinks to himself. If I could smell her, I bet she’d smell like angels ought to smell.
She pops her contacts out and places them neatly in their holder. She walks over to her other cabinet and picks up her cream bottle. Anti-ageing wrinkle cream, with no alcohol; alcohol dries the skin out and makes you look older.
He watches her rub the cream onto her legs, and he feels his chest tighten. Butterflies flap in his stomach, and he feels his groin retreat into his body. Something in him breaks. He no longer cares, nor remembers, the rule about no touching. He can’t stand idly by whilst the girl of his dreams teases him so innocently. He must have her.
She walks into the bathroom and he watches her close the door before he makes his move. He walks over to the garbage dumpster, and picks up a suitable paper bag and a half empty jar of marmalade. He tears the paper in two so it resembles a butterfly’s wings. He unscrews the lid and uses his hand to scoop out the marmalade, before spreading it onto the paper. He can hear her singing in the shower. She has a beautiful voice, melodious and sweet. She’s singing something about karma police.
He walks back to the bedroom window, and covers the window with the paper bag. He picks up a broad stick, possibly a branch from a smaller tree, and strikes the window with enough force to break it, but not too much. He can’t risk her hearing the falling glass. He knocks the glass from the window, and climbs in. The soil leaves two messy footprints, but he can clear them up later.
He walks down the hallway, steering clear of the bathroom. Taking a right at, he heads into the kitchen. He knows this house like his own; he’s been watching her for months. He opens up the top draw on his left, that’s where she keeps the knives. He also gets the paper towels and mop ready. She keeps her house neat and tidy, and she wouldn’t appreciate the mess he is about to make.
With cool killers calm, he heads back to the bathroom. Her voice travels down the hallway, this time singing something about the time of season for loving; her swan song. He leaves the paper towel and mop outside the bathroom; the mop on the bed, the paper towel by the door. He gently opens the door, and it swings open silently. Even the doors are immaculate.
Her view is blocked by the shower curtain. He uses a small hand towel to clear the mirror, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. A cold gaze meets his. Business is about to happen.
He readies the knife. She slides the curtain open, and there is a small moment of shock before the ear shattering scream. He lunges at her with the blade, carving into her flesh. He stabs her once in the stomach, and again in the chest. She raises her hands to protect herself from a third strike, but her strength fails her. Her arms give out, her breath is erratic and heavy, and the blood is crimson. He picks her dying body up, and carries her to the bed. He drops her body, and with a pillow, he smothers her. She struggles for only slightly, feebly clawing at his arms. Tears streak his cheeks.
True beauty is not meant for this world.
She dies. He gathers up the paper towels, and places them over the blood trail which leads from the bathroom to the bed. He turns the shower tap on, and uses a mop to get rid of the blood from the walls. It’s clean-ish. He walks back to her body, and using the same hand towel, he wipes away the blood from around the wounds. If it wasn’t for her already stiffening body, and the several puncture wounds, you’d think she’d be alive.
He goes through her clothes, before finally selecting a red satin dress. He dresses her, and sits her up in a chair. He beautifies her hair and puts on a crimson red lipstick, similar to the blood. Carefully, he adorns her with mascara. Finally, he sprays her with perfume. The bottle says J’our du Treon, but he didn’t know what it meant. It smelt sickly sweet, a mixture of summer roses and autumn breeze.
He takes her body in his arms and carries her to his special place; a place between the borders of the worlds. He carries her back to the castle, all the while thinking to himself, Master will not be pleased. No touching means no touching. Master shall not be pleased.
The woman walks back into her bedroom. She’s wearing a towel now, although she’s not wet. Steam billows out from the door she just came out of. It was slightly ajar. She walks over to the bedside cabinet, and rifles through the drawers searching for something.
Her legs captivate him; so firm and yet so tender. Her lean physique shines through the towel, the hourglass figure of her body immaculate. This girl is special, he thinks to himself. If I could smell her, I bet she’d smell like angels ought to smell.
She pops her contacts out and places them neatly in their holder. She walks over to her other cabinet and picks up her cream bottle. Anti-ageing wrinkle cream, with no alcohol; alcohol dries the skin out and makes you look older.
He watches her rub the cream onto her legs, and he feels his chest tighten. Butterflies flap in his stomach, and he feels his groin retreat into his body. Something in him breaks. He no longer cares, nor remembers, the rule about no touching. He can’t stand idly by whilst the girl of his dreams teases him so innocently. He must have her.
She walks into the bathroom and he watches her close the door before he makes his move. He walks over to the garbage dumpster, and picks up a suitable paper bag and a half empty jar of marmalade. He tears the paper in two so it resembles a butterfly’s wings. He unscrews the lid and uses his hand to scoop out the marmalade, before spreading it onto the paper. He can hear her singing in the shower. She has a beautiful voice, melodious and sweet. She’s singing something about karma police.
He walks back to the bedroom window, and covers the window with the paper bag. He picks up a broad stick, possibly a branch from a smaller tree, and strikes the window with enough force to break it, but not too much. He can’t risk her hearing the falling glass. He knocks the glass from the window, and climbs in. The soil leaves two messy footprints, but he can clear them up later.
He walks down the hallway, steering clear of the bathroom. Taking a right at, he heads into the kitchen. He knows this house like his own; he’s been watching her for months. He opens up the top draw on his left, that’s where she keeps the knives. He also gets the paper towels and mop ready. She keeps her house neat and tidy, and she wouldn’t appreciate the mess he is about to make.
With cool killers calm, he heads back to the bathroom. Her voice travels down the hallway, this time singing something about the time of season for loving; her swan song. He leaves the paper towel and mop outside the bathroom; the mop on the bed, the paper towel by the door. He gently opens the door, and it swings open silently. Even the doors are immaculate.
Her view is blocked by the shower curtain. He uses a small hand towel to clear the mirror, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. A cold gaze meets his. Business is about to happen.
He readies the knife. She slides the curtain open, and there is a small moment of shock before the ear shattering scream. He lunges at her with the blade, carving into her flesh. He stabs her once in the stomach, and again in the chest. She raises her hands to protect herself from a third strike, but her strength fails her. Her arms give out, her breath is erratic and heavy, and the blood is crimson. He picks her dying body up, and carries her to the bed. He drops her body, and with a pillow, he smothers her. She struggles for only slightly, feebly clawing at his arms. Tears streak his cheeks.
True beauty is not meant for this world.
She dies. He gathers up the paper towels, and places them over the blood trail which leads from the bathroom to the bed. He turns the shower tap on, and uses a mop to get rid of the blood from the walls. It’s clean-ish. He walks back to her body, and using the same hand towel, he wipes away the blood from around the wounds. If it wasn’t for her already stiffening body, and the several puncture wounds, you’d think she’d be alive.
He goes through her clothes, before finally selecting a red satin dress. He dresses her, and sits her up in a chair. He beautifies her hair and puts on a crimson red lipstick, similar to the blood. Carefully, he adorns her with mascara. Finally, he sprays her with perfume. The bottle says J’our du Treon, but he didn’t know what it meant. It smelt sickly sweet, a mixture of summer roses and autumn breeze.
He takes her body in his arms and carries her to his special place; a place between the borders of the worlds. He carries her back to the castle, all the while thinking to himself, Master will not be pleased. No touching means no touching. Master shall not be pleased.