TEMPTRESS

PROWLER

The Dove
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Its been a week since I saw the pictures on my television screen. I've barely left my apartment, only leaving for necessities such as groceries. The overwhelming fear of encountering Eden again has confined me indoors. My once vibrant social life has dwindled to mere conversations exchanged via text messages with my brother, and reassuring phone calls with my father. Every noise, every shadow, sends a chill down my spine. I constantly check my surroundings, my senses on alert for any hint of danger. My once curious nature has transformed into a cautious demeanor, my eyes scanning every corner, every stranger, for signs of Eden's ominous presence. Despite my best efforts to avoid him, it seems I've gained my very own prowler. Standing under that one dimly lit street light, a red dot piercing through the cold night air gleaming from his cigarette, maybe I should tell him if he keeps up that habit he'll surely get cancer or something.

I've always hated smoking, it's a disgusting habit. Every time I see him, all I can do is stare. His posture broad and tall, looking solemn as he watches my complex. Cigarette smoke dances around him, weaving patterns in the air as if attempting to shield him from the world. He's still been leaving notes and white feathers for me, minus the blood. I've received two since the original. Always addressing me as little dove, and himself as my raven. His words often filled with cryptic riddles and eerie metaphors. They paint a picture of a tormented soul, seeking solace in the embrace of the forbidden. He seems to view me as some kind of salvation, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that envelopes his existence. His words, a symphony of contradictions and mysteries, seem to weave a tale of pain, betrayal, and ultimately redemption. He seemed to only write in his own versus, bathing in hidden messages and meanings.

I had to call out sick my first few days of my brothers office. I couldn't bare to leave my apartment. I've told him I have the flu, and that I probably caught it from the flight over here. I don't want to alarm Zeke, I love him and would never want to cause him worry. Plus, if he knew what was happening to me, he'd make me quit this job and move me back home. I should really call the police and make a report, I dont know why I haven't yet. One part of me just wants him to leave me alone, but the other, just draws me towards him. He reminds me of something so distant, yet so near to my heart. I definitely need to see a physiologist or something, I'm definitely messed in the head. He's a creepy stalker for fucks sake. A murderer. But there's something oddly comforting about his presence... Terrifying, but comforting.

It's a strange dichotomy, one that makes my head spin. His enigmatic presence casts a long shadow over my life, a relentless pursuit that seems to draw me deeper into the abyss. I've become obsessed with him, analyzing every word, every gesture, every sign he leaves behind. Am I truly attracted to this man, or am I just drawn to the mystery surrounding him? The fear that grips me when I lay my eyes on him seems almost intoxicating, like an illicit drug that I can't resist. Nonetheless, I definitely don't want him to come any closer than that little spot outside. In fact, the idea of him anywhere near me sets my skin crawling. This predicament, combined with his bizarre behavior, creates a strange bond between us. We're bound together with invisible ties, tugging at my heartstrings. He reminds me of something I can't quite articulate. An indescribable force that seems to pull me towards him, despite the danger he poses.

Tonight I see him again. He always appears just as fast as he dissipates into the night. He hasn't broken in again since that last endeavour, and I think I'd like to keep it that way. Each evening at 10pm he's appeared. Never early never late. Always on time. Underneath the faint glow of the old street lamp, he stands motionless, save for the occasional flicker of his cigarette. His movements graceful, like a puppet master pulling strings, orchestrating his own symphony of self destruction. I swear if he tried breaking in again I'd attack him myself, I doubt my weak ass self would be able to do any damage, but I do have a nice new kitchen knife set my father sent me. I can surely use one of those as a weapon. I reach for the curtain in my living room, gingerly peeking outside. There he is, puffing out smoke in perfect rhythm, matching the ticking of the clock on my bedroom wall. Like an automatic metronome, perfectly timed.