Veil of Hunger

The first time I see her, I feel it— the quiet hum beneath my skin, the pull, the hunger. I could wrap my hands around her delicate throat, feel her pulse thrumming beneath my fingers. But first I must get her out of here. The bass rattles the floor beneath my feet, the stench of alcohol hangs thick in the air with too much cologne, perfume, and unkempt body odor. This party seems like any typical university soirée. Yet, I understand the host is dating a girl from CSU Bakersfield. So we Stanford elect must mingle with CSUB  groupies. Lucky for the host, or at least his parents, who own a stunning Mid-Century modern three-story home on the hill. The kitchen features a private balcony displaying the city at night with all its glittering lights and bustling lives outside of this madness. Then there she is this perfect head of honey hair that catches my eye. One might think that at a party full of California students, hair like this is common, and indeed, it was not only the honey hair but also the soft brown doe eyes, freckled skin, and an innocently kind smile that captivated me. Outside on the party's edge, I couldn't help but stare at this lost girl. She reminds me of something in my past, something I both cherish and hate with such fire that my blood begins to boil. Our eyes meet with a spark, a spark of recognition, of interest. She doesn't know yet. Doesn't know what she’s awakened. My mouth goes dry as she smiles, soft and unguarded, and I am already picturing the ways I could make her mine. She blinks to break contact, blushing pink cheeks, and a great grin spreads across her face. An interaction that took five seconds felt endless. 

I rushed to the kitchen looking for a glass. I filled it with tap water and gulped it down. Above the cabinets, I spotted an expensive bottle hidden and obscured from the party animals. I drained my glass and filled it with the amber liquid that made my chest burn like fire and my inhibitions fall away. I slid out onto the balcony and watched the city glitter. 

My past is full of mistakes that I can't help but repeat. In my mind, I wrap one hand in honey-blond hair like it's second nature and hold her slender throat with the other hand. Her skin turns purple and blue, her eyes bulge, and her mouth gapes open to scream, but nothing can escape my grasp. I drink more to get the image of her out of my head. I glance at the party and watch her excuse herself from a tall man with gold-rimmed glasses and feathery light blond hair, and she is looking at me. As I watch her advance toward me, it resembles a doe choosing to leap into the claws of a tiger.

“I like your watch.” Hearing her voice say even such mundane words echoes in childhood the discovery of holding a shell to your ear; you hear the ocean inside like magic is real. She traces its glass and notices it has two clock faces in the square box. I hold my breath at her touch. 

“Really you have a good eye, it's rare to find.”

“Really, it looks unique.”

“Hard to find a Royce Dual Time.” I am insufferable, like the village idiot conversing with the fairest in the land; I keep my cool.

“And what would you need dual time for?” I had a deep belief that it was cool. A nice vintage piece, this idiot running a pawn shop didn’t know its true value, and it felt good to swindle someone who swindles. But I can't very well tell her that, so I'll give her a nice treat of my charm. "Well, I am far from home. They are in India right now, and I miss them dearly. So I wear this. The left clock is my time; the right clock is India.”

“That is so sweet,” she grabs my hand in hers. Her touch shocks me. Her hands are ice; I shudder at the thought of warming them with blood gushing out, flooding over them, sticky, slippery, and red. “Where in India are they?” She pulls me from my thoughts.

“I am from Madanapalle.”

“Is it just beautiful there?”

“It can be.” Not usually, but if you like the way Southern California looks, it can be similarly dirty and crowded. Besides, foreigners love to see our struggling markets and ancient temples.

“Now I know you’re not only from India, so where else have you been?”

“Oh yeah?”  shit.

“I can hear it in your accent.”

“Ah, yes, that kind of gives it away, huh? Well, when I was 13, my family moved to a small town called Abilene in Texas. Have you ever heard of it?” Hopefully not.

“No, never. But I've lived in California my whole life.”

“Yeah, didn't think you would; it's a nowhere town.” Let's change the subject, “Should we get out of here and go to a less degenerate place?” If I can get her away to a more secluded place. The image blooms in my mind; her wrists pinned above her honey hair, my knee pressing her down, the razor glinting at her throat and I bathe in her silky red ichor. I shiver at the thought. Then she smiles, oblivious to my inner demon, "Yeah, I'm down, let me tell my friend so she doesn't go crazy looking for me.” Who knew it was so easy? She rushes off, and I realize people will notice us leaving together; I must think of an alibi if I proceed. I slide next to her, "Hey, you hungry?” She smiles, “I could eat.” I lead her to my rusted second or third-hand deep green AMC Pacer. I hold open the passenger side door, and she hesitates, shit.

 "Now, before I get in, I don't even know your name.” I grin, hoping to help her feel at ease, and I notice her blush.  This gives me the confidence to charm her. I hold out my hand to guide her into the vehicle. 

“But doesn't that make it more intriguing?” She clutches her hand to her bosom and looks into my eyes, the corner of her lip lifting, telling me I can't get away with too much. As easy as this has been so far, she is smarter than I thought. How intriguing she is, why would she choose me? "Ravikant Anvay Indivar, but please call me Ravi.” My lips brush the skin of her hand so gently the temperature rises between us. 

“It's good to meet you, Ravi, Clio Joan Weston. Call me Clio.” 

Finally, I've got her into my car. The whole way to Wendy's we talked about my family and hers, not a dull moment. She makes me feel open and curious. I sense a real connection with her. It’s not just a pull to explore her insides with the slice of a blade. It’s something deeper. For the first time, I truly feel human. We eat big juicy burgers on the hood of my car and laugh like children because I can't help but love beef yet feel so guilty eating it, even though I'm not religious. And she drips ketchup all over her pink blouse. In another life, we could be soulmates, but when I drop her off at her apartment late that night, or should I say early the next morning, a man stands pathetically on the stoop begging her to take him back, so I drive off but never forget how she could make me feel human. She took the monster inside me and banished it from thought. 

I'll never forget her; I'll never forget where she lives either. As I drive away with this knowledge, I realize something, and parts of a plan start to formulate in my mind. I could always stop by and check in on her; she could be alone one night and I could watch her. I want her, I want her to be mine. I know this is my life, she is my life, she is where my humanity lies; I need her. She wants me, she was the one who got into my car, she talked to me, touched my watch, and flirted. Who was that pathetic loser anyway? I should be in there filling her with life, not him. I… I should kill him, get rid of him, crush his windpipe beneath my grip! 

For years I followed her through graduation, watching as he cheated on her so many times. I watched her friends put her down, watched her fall apart inside. I watched as she lost her spark. I bought a house in her neighborhood. I copied her keys, and I started to get to know her life inside and out. She became my ritual, my worship, my constant obsession. Everything I do, I do to be close to her. But at some point I could no longer watch. I had to do something.

I stood in the shadows to watch her; I hid in order to gaze at her without fear of retribution for my hunger. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, fair and young; I could almost taste her glistening salty sweat on my tongue. I wish I could brush her golden hair cascading like honey over her bare slender shoulders. I tracked her as she paced between her expansive closet and silver mirror, showing me her perfect reflection. I could set out a chair and watch her all night as she tried on everything in her closet for the perfect New Year's Eve outfit. She finally settled on a gray silk dress. The neckline looked like a waterfall plunging between her supple, perky breasts. Her nipples were erect in the cool December air. Her window was wide open, practically welcoming me in. Truthfully, every time I was in her home, I would crank up the thermostat hoping she would open her windows so I could see her more clearly. I love to watch her perched within her bay window inside the master bedroom as she looks out at the world, drinking tea, content not to be doing anything other than existing. I love to watch her on her patio or in her backyard, smoking cigarettes like they could cure every worry and woe, like they could magically fix her broken spirit. I love watching her take care of her yard. Sometimes she works with her paid landscaper, Alejandro, who would do it all himself. But she enjoys getting her hands dirty and learning the work. She has been out there enough that she could do it herself. Still, I suspect she likes the company. Having another soul to share in the labor beside her. I love to watch as she sleeps, so innocent and calm as her chest rises and falls as if to the beat of her slowed heart. It feels like a gift to see her in that peace, so rare as her insomnia wakes her or won’t allow her rest at all. I wish I could live in her, feel her skin, to experience what she endures, dream what she dreams, and climax as she does. I want to know what she thinks; I want to kill for her.

I clicked the remote in hand, dismissing the automatic sensor light above the sliding glass door, glanced at my surroundings, and prowled toward the door. Within a second, I picked the lock and slid right in. Her scent of floral spicy citrus with a powdery finish enveloped in smoky tobacco enthralls me. I turned the thermostat from 76 degrees to her comfortable 68 degrees. I shuddered with excitement, while the fear of being caught faded as I heard her rustling in her room. I knew every inch of her home and climbed the stairs like it was second nature, not a whine from the old worn wood. I peeked through the crack in her bedroom door. The light blinded me at first, until I adjusted. I recognized her slender wrist twisting as she styled her hair. I could imagine holding both her wrists in one hand above her head as my knee pushed between her thighs. I took a deep breath in through my nose and out my mouth; I had started to salivate. I took another deep breath to clear my mind and squeezed my hands into fists, filling my lungs then exhaling. I looked at my watch, and it showed 9:20. I wished I could watch her all night, but she had places to be. I snuck into my hiding place where she rarely, if ever, would go, the room at the opposite end of the hall, her guestroom. I looked out the window, watching her surroundings, making sure my other hiding spot remained black with shadow. A glint out of the corner of my eye; I immediately twisted my gaze, locking in on the window-lined room, a peninsula on the second level of the house behind hers. A dark-haired boy with a camera lens zoomed in on Clio’s room. 

My thoughts slowed with the beat of my heart, my blood boiling. He’s watching her. Like I do. no - not like me. He doesn't love her, doesn't understand her. He’s a parasite. A thief. He took pictures. He took my pictures. Heat rose in my chest and in my face; I could have screamed, I could have raged and tore this room apart. My heart beat twice as fast as I ran through all the ways I could break his fingers, gouge out his eyes, and snap his neck. I wanted his blood to coat my fingers; I wanted to bathe in it. I wanted to smash every single one of those windows. The bastard took pictures of her! I spat on the floor, my fists seizing. My breath comes in ragged gasps. He must be dealt with. Then a thought entered my mind and I went cold. I dropped to the floor, my hands shook out of their grip and little crescent marks had cut into my palms. I tried to calm myself through bated breath. He likely had pictures of me. He probably had proof that I was here. He could have taken a picture of my hiding space; who knew what he could see through the binocular lens? He had to go. How could I protect her from this, how could I make this all work in our favor?