June 1st, 2014
Lately, it seems as if somebody is following me.
I close my blinds, yet, every time I can still feel their gaze pierce into me; like a knife.
I will turn around in the street because I hear footsteps, yet, nobody is there, I continue to walk.
In the dimly lit streets of Philadelphia, amongst a foggy evening, I heard it again.
The tip-tapping of somebody's shoes on the pavement.
I turned around, but nobody was there.
My head hurt.
When I got home, I locked my apartment, with not one, but three locks.
I closed all blinds and walked into the bathroom.
I grabbed a bottle of my prescriptions; anti-anxiety and antidepressants.
I smoothly poured the white granules into my mouth; letting them trickle down my throat before washing out the flavour with alcohol.
My head felt cooler, it was nice.
I leaned over my sink, looking at the hair clogging the drain.
Do they know?
Does the stalker know what I did?
If so, how?
Thoughts plagued my mind but eventually got swept away.
No matter what I do, it's all pointless now, they can't bring her back.
Nobody can.
Which is probably troubling to her parents, but alas, it's too late now.
I can still feel her squirming under my touch, her tears on my hand, her body going limp.
It was exhilarating.
The murder was never planned.
It just kind of happened.
I'm perfectly sane, I am aware of what I did and how it can never be taken back.
I just wanted to feel it.
What it was like.
It was wonderful.
Picking a target was the least of my worries, as my fear wasn't getting caught, but being interrupted.
I wanted to complete the murder, to process it with every fibre of my being.
Her olive skin brushing against my bathtub, the water seasoned with salt as her tears kept flowing.
Her hair was soft in my hands.
She was beautiful, but that wouldn't get her anywhere.
At first, I didn't really do anything.
I would just pull her, hold her hands really tightly and squeeze her neck, causing her to pass out on multiple occasions.
I think she was alive for three days at least.
I can't really recall, it was all about the experience, rather than the duration for me.
By the end of day two, her wrists, ankles and neck were painted a beautiful grape colour.
The bruises suited her nicely.
She never talked, and when she did, she would just apologise.
I'm not sure why she did, it's not like I went out of my way to choose her.
It was a random target, she just happened to live relatively close by and go to the same university as I.
She never ate, only drank bathtub water.
However, I have come upon a discovery recently.
It seems I have developed feelings for this decomposing woman.
Completely unintentional, however, her eyes stare into my soul with each passing day, making my heart throb.
I've kissed her neck, which has faded into a pale colour as her fingertips have begun to prune.
Her cheeks are becoming more and more shallow, but that's okay, she's still beautiful.
I don't know her name.
But that's okay.
I still trace each hole in her body.
I remember the day well.
She was in the bathtub, her eyes red and puffy.
I smiled at her and had her turn to the wall.
I washed her hair for her, making it soft and silky; she winced and shivered under my touch.
I retrieved a small utility knife from my pocket and slashed her throat.
She grabbed onto her neck and gasped as the water stained red.
Oh, it felt lovely.
She turned to me, her hand doing nothing to ease the pain.
I thrust my knife into her stomach, she gagged, unable to scream.
She was going to die soon.
I kept thrusting.
It felt amazing.
I was practically fucking her with the blade, each movement feeling exhilarating and better than the last.
After she died, I examined the slash across her neck, it was a little too shallow, so I stabbed into it.
Blood trickled from each wound, giving off a pleasant aroma.
I cleaned her up and dressed her.
I sat her down in my closet, she's beautiful.
I decided that if I love her so much, I may as well find peace with her.
I don't wish to spend a life behind iron bars, it seems inhumane.
So that's why I have filled my bathtub to the brim with kerosene.
Today, I will bathe, slashing my throat and stabbing my stomach.
The same method, except adding the kerosene.
I love the scent, although toxic.
It would be amazing if she could see me now, bathing where she sat, killing myself with the same bloodied knife I used to kill her.
Then, in the afterlife, we will be reunited.
We will fall in love all over again, and the cycle must repeat.
