"Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away"
-Willian Hughes Mearns
I watch her through her bathroom window. I knew today would be the day, but I didn't know I'd be so lucky for her to shower right before I claim her. The idea of her writhing on the bed, dripping wet, hair sticking to her face in her desperate attempts to escape…
Mmm, how difficult it is to control myself the day of the attack.
Her silhouette turns to me through the frosted glass and I feel her chills. We are connected – they radiate down both our spines simultaneously. I love her fear. It feels, tastes, smells so good. What she sees, I see. What she tastes, smells, hears, I sense as well. What she touches –
Oh, the nights she let her fingers slip below the thin lining of her silky underwear were unbearable for me. My fingers were dry, yet immersed in her wet heat. It nearly put me in a coma. But that was before she knew of me.
She knew I was watching now. She's been trying to dodge me for days. Weeks, even. I shift to make myself more comfortable on my treetop perch. She's staring directly at me. I blow her a kiss. She cannot see me through the blurred window, but she knows what I've done. The sound of the water ceases and the steam emerging from the open, top half of the window thins. Oh, no, my little water bug. You aren't escaping this time.
I painlessly drop from the incredible height of the tree and sprint to the house. Her footsteps are heard scurrying down the stairs, through the foyer, and, if I'm not mistaken, into the living room where her closest phone is. Oh, how I know you so well, love. I smash the lock on her door with the sheer force of a hard, nerveless elbow, and let myself in.
She's crying. I tip toe into her living room and peek in, leaning on the wall at the entrance. She didn't hear the door fly open; she was too busy babbling hysterically to the local police officer.
Silly, silly Charlotte. Didn't they tell you time and time again I don't exist? They're going to take you away, and I'm still going to have my way with you – in soundproof, white padded rooms.
I calmly approach my doll and slip the phone from her petrified fingers. Her mouth pauses mid-sentence and she gapes at me as I place it gently on the base.
"Are you going to come quietly? Or am I going to have to be rough with you?"
Her long, chocolate-colored curls dotted her neck and arms with delicious water droplets. I longed to take her by the back of the neck and lick every little one off individually. Her clothes were on, but very rumpled and misshapen, no doubt from her haste to dress and reach the phone. More tears spilled from her cheeks and she fled into the kitchen. Good. Just how I like it.
The flesh between my legs hardened at the mere thought of wrestling her down and taking what is mine. I slowly follow her. Quaint little Charlotte, you always had a thing for ducks in your kitchen. Ducklings, to be exact, and chicks. My eyes take a casual trip around the room: duckling-covered potholders, chick magnets on the refrigerator, framed pictures of both swimming and pecking at the floor and flapping about. I had grown fond of them as well, night after night of watching you prepare your food and eat alone. But don't worry - you won't be alone anymore.
She's defending herself. Backed up against her counter, feet apart, knife outstretched. A knife that could do considerable harm to any normal man. But she doesn't quite understand me, yet. Normal, I'm not.
I approach her and she instantly lashes out at me. The knife glides across my neck smoothly, leaving no marks or lacerations of any kind. I smirk lustfully at her feistiness and tear it from her grasp. Her lovely scream fills the house as I lift her with ease and drop her roughly onto the counter, allowing her head to carelessly bump against the cabinets above. Off go her clothes; she lurches from the counter as I begin to remove mine, but I force her back down.
"Please, please stop! What do you want from me? Why have you been after me for so long?"
"I think it's obvious what I want," I purr. Crushing her against my body, I sink my lips into the delectable curve of her neck. She whimpers, exciting further the beast in me.
"Please let me go!" she cries, struggling. I tear her from the counter and drop her heavily to the floor. Her head thuds against the tile and she becomes dazed, giving me the opportune moment to strike. I shed the rest of my binding clothing and force myself into her.
She's loose… there's been someone before me?
My eyes narrow and I slap her hard across the face. The bitch! She's slept with another man! She was mine to begin with. All mine. Since the day she first entered my world and I trapped her here.
The sharp sting snaps her out of her daze and she screams. Pleas for mercy. Yells for help. No one can hear you, I tell her, but she won't listen. I grunt in frustration and force my lips down on hers and my desire is back. I'll take care of the other man some other time. Whoever he may be. And I'll make sure she watches every second of it. But for now, I'm going to take what was left of her. Every. Last. Bit.
The struggle continues. Thrashing, screaming, crying – it all excites me, hardens me until I think I might burst. I lose control: grab her hair; her neck; her round, supple breasts. The small, hard nipples, involuntarily perked. Her round shoulders, her rounder hips. She bites, scratches, hits. It's all pleasure to me. Her sheer horror at my immortality gives me the sense of victory I longed for. I suck hard on her breasts—I've obsessed over them long enough; I deserve a taste. I continue, devouring every inch of her, exploring her inside and out. I finally shudder and pull myself out of her, releasing on her smooth, shaven thighs, but it isn't enough. I hold her hips down hard and bury my face in her heat. She's wet, but unwilling. She tries to sit up and scamper away. I tackle her, chuckling at the game, and lose my lips in her folds once more. I can't get enough. I can go on forever, scratching down her legs and hips while she flails violently, drinking her in, drawing blood and raising flesh in blue, yellow, black tenderness…
Suddenly, I see a flash of the other side and I know it's almost over. I plunge my length into her and finish once more. Quickly cover her with hickeys and love-bites to show whoever soiled her first in her world that I now claim her. And then, disappointed and crying out in frustration, I'm cut off by a blinding white light.
Until tomorrow, my love.
Charlotte bolted out of bed with a shrill scream. The impact of the floor hurt more than it should. She glanced down and saw bruises. Yellow-blue welts and scratches spanned almost the entirety of her naked body, all up and down her arms and legs. No hickeys, no fluids. Except for the blood leaking from her self-inflicted scratches.
They had to believe her. The man was real. He had stalked her for almost a month, taunting her, letting her know her time would come. And it finally did. She thought at first they were only dreams, but now she questioned whether she was right. They were too real. She must be living at night, tortured by him, and waking to the true nightmare during the day: trying desperately to convince officers and doctors of his existence; being sent to a therapist by her ex, who could no longer take her nightly thrashing and, because of the increasing frequency of her panicked neuroses had to move out and eventually left her; knowing that if she didn't shape up, she'd wind up in padded rooms.
She now knew that those who were sent to psychiatric wards were really the sane ones. They've just been tortured. They live lives like hers, which no one will believe. They are raped, beaten, nearly murdered. Driven insane by those in their daytime dreams who insist they are merely confused.
She knew he'd be back for her. He wasn't finished; didn't look or feel anywhere near it. She ran to her car, knowing there was no reason to run. He wouldn't find her again until nighttime, and until then, she was safe in her dream world. Yet still tormented by the police. The doctors. The shrinks. But she'd convince them this time. They had to believe her. Just for her own peace of mind as she slept—or woke—or—.
Memories of her waking nightmare flashed before her eyes as she drove. Tears shot down her cheeks in torrents as she tried to reject the images, mumbling no, no, no under her breath, slamming on the breaks and the accelerator, losing some of her vision to the blinding, salty water rising in her eyes, screaming as she swerved and crashed through the side rails and into the ravine nestled menacingly beside the highway. And then there was nothing.
The woman standing before me was a complete wreck. I gazed sympathetically at her, trying my best to seem a bit hopeful. Her daughter was going to be okay. Physically, at least. But how do you tell a mother that it's in her best interest to relieve their child to a psychiatric ward? The girl was only twenty-two, for heaven's sake.
I sighed. Herein lies the hardest part of my job. Who in their right mind would deal with extra school to be in this position, I don't know.
"Ma'am, there's no need for you to worry. Your daughter is going to be fine. She was very lucky – the car happened to crash in just a way that she was thrust into the airbag. The only damage she suffered was a mild concussion from her head bouncing back and hitting the window."
The woman sobbed harder. I wasn't sure if it was relief or her reaction to my trained, emotionless description.
"If you'd like," I continued, "You can go visit her in a few moments. But there is something I have to tell you first." I waited patiently. She composed herself as best she could, wiping away stray tears and sniffling. "I've been seeing a lot of your daughter in the past month. I don't know if she's told you, but she's been suffering from night terrors. These are extremely vivid and horrifying dreams, often recurring, in which the person or someone they love is hurt."
She didn't respond. Her daughter had definitely kept this from her. Her confusion was obvious.
"The odd thing is, Charlotte has been experiencing these nightmares through her attacker's eyes. She feels her own pain, but also seems to feel what he feels. She not only watches herself being stalked and eventually attacked, she is the one committing these acts. She says she is in a man's body."
The mother clutched the tissue in her hand tighter. It was torn and completely soaked through, doing nothing for the continuing streams of tears and mucus running down her face. Here comes the worst of it.
"A shrink was assigned to her when this all first started. She was reluctant to go at first, but after a while she thought of it as an escape from the reality of her nightmares. After careful evaluation, her therapist and I both agree it will be best to have her sent to a clinic to receieve special treatment and attention." I searched the mother's face for any sign of rebellion. Once it settled in and she was about to speak, I cut her off. "I know this is hard. But it's for her well-being. We can't have her driving off roads every time she has a nightmare. It's no wonder she didn't tell you about the night terrors; she was convinced they were her reality. She was confusing real life with her dreams. Plus, I'm afraid she's not … mentally stable. The odd perspective in her dreams suggests she suffers from a split personality disorder."
She broke down again. The human being in me wanted to reach out and hold her, comfort her. But the doctor in me firmly stood his ground. Suddenly, the P.A. system blared to life.
"Emergency, emergency. Doctor Harp to Room 401. Doctor Harp to Room 401."
Oh no, what now?
I tossed the pale mother a sharp command to stay in the waiting room. Sprinting down the blindingly white halls, I turned corner after corner until I reached Room 401. The door was ajar. Several nurses were attempting to restrict Charlotte, who was violently flailing and thrashing about. A woman who was quickly preparing a sedative in the corner of the room told me that the girl had been sound asleep before the commotion began. I ordered them to let go and snatched the sedative from her hands, returning to the girl's side.
She was desperate. Her left arm lashed out and knocked the injection from my hand, sending it crashing to the floor. On its way down, her arm caught on the pacemaker. The wire seemed to rip from her in slow motion. The horrible, haunting sound of a flat line rang throughout the room, echoed back to me over and over. Her eyes widened for a moment and she stilled and I made a mad rush to reinsert it. Please, please—
I looked up, hoping to God the monitor would begin beeping again.
The screen remained black. The green line not only stayed flat, it didn't move at all—it seemed to be rejecting the very idea of bringing the poor girl back to her torture.
She lay still, peaceful. I wanted to believe she was relieved from her suffering, but I couldn't. I could never look at death the way other doctors do, no matter how bad the condition.
And through the deadly silence that blanketed the room, a mother's anguished cries came through the doorway.