The girl harasses my thoughts. Our collision a week back keeps playing in the back of my consciousness, like one of Uncle Alexander’s old broken films.
At the beginning, I succumbed to watching her only to unravel her. Normalise her. Deem her unimportant for my intrigue. Surely her physical appearance didn’t enamour me. I don’t work that way. Thus, I hid in the shadows and made use of my analytical observation.
The empaths label it as stalking.
I learnt snippets of her life and engraved the tiniest of her habits to memory. I recorded every step, laugh, and smile to contemplate later.
Mae is a princess.
She comes from new money, with a crowd of friends, and an effortless feminine aura.
However, those aren’t what kept me going back for more. What drew my attention, and worsened my dark intents, was her art. I sneaked into her college’s workshop and saw the paintings she kept there.
What I witnessed piqued my interest to an alarming level.
A girl whose world is surrounded with a happy cliched circle of family and friends isn’t supposed to paint those haunting works. They spoke to me in a language only my demons and I can understand.
Is her seemingly perfect little world a camouflage? Does she perhaps hide a darkness that sallies her soul?
She’s an abnormality that I yearn to unravel. Maybe tarnish her pureness, and throw her off the edge when I’m done.
Although her little existence is— by all rules— off limits. The longer I observe, the deeper I crave to act on my uncontainable desires.
My skin turns to a pale blue shade. I take the sign to step out of the icy stream, and into the centre of my quarters. This Western Wing was Uncle Alexander’s. Once in time, it was greenish, with floral scents oozing from the main bedroom, adjoining rooms, reception hall, and even the office. There used to be a large happy family picture above the bed, and a dozen others throughout the place.
They sickened me.
I ripped them all down and turned the whole place black.
My phone vibrates. I answer while drying my hair with a towel. “What is it, Kane?”
“Two journalists are here for you, Sir.”
The damn pests won’t leave me alone.
I throw the towel on the bed. “I have no appointments this evening. Let alone with journalists. Turn them down.”
There is a crunch at the other side the line. Another crackle. Kane saying something unintelligible. Then a feminine yell. Straight into my ears. “Lord Rhodes, please! We won’t ask many questions! We only want—”
Another crunch. Kane barking orders, then silence.
“Did you kill her?” I ask.
“No, Sir.” He pauses. “Do you want me to?”
They’re the ones who came to my house. I ought to give them a special interview and satiate my blood lust in between.
No. Innocents are off the hook. I can at least be that civil.
“Send them away, and don’t contact me about journalists again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
This is the second time in three days. The attention my last name and title attracts is infuriating.
The monitor in my bedroom lights up, flashing my cousin’s name.
Here comes my babysitter.