Chapter 2

Carefully, I put the makeshift key in the lock of her front door and twist it. My hand actually trembles slightly. It annoys me. Focus! The mechanism obediently clicks open like every time before and I nod satisfied. This will be the last time I pass through this door, the last time I'll need the key.

You really should have learnt to take better care of yourself, Lisa.

But soon that won't matter anyway.

It was easy enough to get into her locker at work and make a copy of the key. The bitch tried to shut me out, ME, by changing the lock in her door after the attack on the hotel. It took me four days to get back inside.

Four.

Fucking.

Days.

I snarl inaudibly and scratch the healed, but still raw, scar on my neck; it seems to itch every time I think about HER.

Lisa Reisert.

And I think about her a lot.

Lisa Reisert.

I've kept repeating her name like a mantra to keep my edge. To stay alert. To never forget what needs to be done.

Lisa Reisert.

The moist heat from her showering slaps me in the face as I enter her hallway. It smells of flowers, a thick, sickly sweet odor. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. This is how she smells these days? I remember her scent from the plane. Pleasant. Feminine. Young.

Well, later she stank of sweat.

They all do after spending some quality time with me.

The bathroom is right in front of me, and it would be awkward if she'd step out at this moment. The shower is still making a thundering noise, though, and I'm able to shut the door quietly behind me and walk into her bedroom. I know where I'll wait. I've known for as long as I can remember.

Caressing the knife I've attached to my belt, I listen as she moves in the bathroom, the shower still clattering. A shiver trickles down my back and I feel something akin to arousal.

Soon, Lisa.

I feel almost giddy; this will soon be over. I keep seeing her before me, entering the room, totally unaware that I'm standing behind the door and that she's about to draw her last breath.

Soon-soon-soon… I fiddle impatiently with the knife's sheath, my heart beating the rhythm of the words. I haven't felt this good in a long time. I can't recall when a job ever gave me the sense of excitement and completion that I experience at this moment. I look around the room, the little hairs at my arms stand straight up as I hear the sudden silence after the shower has been turned off.

I slide into place.

Do I talk first? Give her the scare of her life? Do I put the blade to her throat the first thing I do, or do I wait for the right moment? When exactly IS the right moment? Choices, choices…

I revel in the thrill.

Bending my head back, facing the ceiling, I close my eyes and inhale slowly. My fingers feel the contour of the knife through the jacket.

Then I exhale.

And wait.

::

I wash my face in ice cold water for a long time, rubbing my eyes hard, almost as if trying to erase the pain I saw in them. Finally my hands and cheeks are numb, my skin is raw, and I feel clean. After drying the wetness off, I glance up and meet my reflection in the mirror again. My eyes are green, I know they are, and yet a flash of intense blue haunts me every time I meet my own gaze.

I hate you!

I shake my head, trying to erase the memory, and throw the towel on the hanger. Enough of this! I resolutely open the bathroom door and turn off the lights, sending me tumbling into the almost complete darkness of my hallway.

I'm fine.

I Inhale.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Steps to my bedroom door.

With my hand on the door knob, I stop. Before I go to bed tonight I just want to sit in my living room for a little while with a cup of tea and read a few pages in the book I bought yesterday. I want to savor the fact that it's been one month; that time passes and life goes on.

Then I can sleep.

I think.

I exhale and turn around. In almost complete darkness I walk to my little kitchen in the other end of the hallway.

Putting the water kettle to use, I then turn on the little lamp in the window. The greenish lamp shade flickers to life, as does its reflection in the dark window.

It's soothing to hear the water start to boil. It's an act of normalcy. I choose a green tea with lemon flavor that I know won't keep me awake. I glance at the clock on the microwave oven. It's already ten to twelve. It's too late already. This will be a short sitting.

Pouring the hot water, I then dip the tea bag in the cup and bring it with me to the couch in the adjacent living room. I leave the lights off. The book remains on the coffee table. I can't focus on reading anyway.

I sip on the hot fluid. It's quiet. Outside it has begun to rain and I listen to the sound of the drops hitting my window. The peacefulness calms my restless heart and when the cup is half empty, I put it down.

It's time.

I need to sleep. It's well past midnight now and tomorrow is a working day. I leave the cup on the table and the little light burning in the kitchen window and start towards my bedroom again.

I inhale deeply.

God, I hope I can sleep tonight.

I reach out for the door.

Open. Enter. Close.

Exhale.

The Ripper! Jackson! JACKSON!

I SEE.

HIM!

And finally, it's for real.

He's behind my door! In MY bedroom! I can't believe my eyes. My heart slams irregularly in my chest, and I tremble. I can't breathe.

NO!

I back. I scream. My mouth goes dry. It's the nightmare from my father's kitchen all over again. Jackson Rippner is standing in my bedroom, and this time it isn't my imagination. The sound of my own holler pierces through the silent room before it turns into a roar of pure anger.

I do NOT accept this!

"NO!"

He smirks and takes a step closer to me, blocking the only exit as he moves. "Oh, yes, Leese," he rasps, his voice low and barely above a whisper.

My eyes dart quickly between him and the door. No, he'd get me. I back again, my legs hitting the chair behind me. I twist around, grab it and hurl it across the room, hitting him God knows where, as I scream at him.

"You are NOT in my home! You are NOT here! You… BASTARD!" I grab the next object I feel behind my back, throwing it hard at him. One of my field hockey trophies flashes of silver in the air between us. "LEAVE!" I roar.

Jackson flails, evading the flying objects in my bedroom, and takes a giant leap forward, grabbing my upper arms before I can reach anything larger. Or sharper.

"You fucking deceitful BITCH," he snarls close to my ear, pulling me into his painful embrace. I loathe the feeling of the hot air from his breath on my cheek and turn my head away, twisting in his grip.

"You disgust me," I whisper. "Following me, spying on me, barging into MY house, MY home..." I swallow hard and turn to look him straight in the eyes. "You're pathetic, JACK. You're truly a small, pathetic human being. Get out. Let me go and get OUT." I scream the last word.

I'm not prepared for the hit. He slams his forehead onto my nose and I more feel than hear it crack. The pain is worse than anything I can remember. Staggering backwards, I slide partially out of his grip when my knees buckle. As I feel the sharp edge on my throat, just above where the clavicles meet, I begin to tremble.

'He held a knife to my throat... the whole time...' In a flash I re-live the horrors from the parking lot two years ago.

No… no…

My eyes dart up to meet his oddly blue gaze; his face is twisted in rage, his nostrils widened and his lips pressed together.

It strikes me how attractive I found him when we first met, and it amazes me what hate can do to a person's features. There's nothing beautiful about him now. Not here, not tonight.

"Leese," he breathes. "I don't plan to go anywhere. I did p- plan to do this quick-" He's so angry that he stutters. "-but you will suffer for that."

His hold on my arm is bruisingly hard and I hiss as I feel the sting when the knife breaks through the tender skin on my throat.

Ow….

I stiffen.

Focus.

Instead of the paralyzing fear for my life that I would have thought I'd feel, an eerie calm suddenly washes over me. He can kill me, but he can't win this.

I smirk.

"P-p-p-plan," I taunt. "Are you so excited about finally holding me in your arms that you stutter like a little boy? DID you stutter when you were little? Hm? JACK? When all the other little boys called you names…" I stare straight into the blue hatred that pours over me. "Well, kill me then, if that's what you want so badly. Go ahead."

He shakes me violently. "Shut the FUCK up, Leese! You have no idea what I'm capable of. You don't know a fraction of it!"

I grit my teeth, steeling myself from the numbing pain in my arm and shoulder. "Words, words, words," I sigh demonstratively, ignoring my fluttering heart. "If you're SO capable, then why am I still alive, huh? Why are we still talking? I just don't think you can do it. I think you're afraid. I don't think you've ever killed. You're just this wannabe-"

I can't help the scream when his fist connects with my jaw and my head rocks to the side. A metallic taste fills my mouth.

"Shut UP!" he snarls.

I feel pure hate as I spit the blood straight in his face. It's a weird kind of satisfaction to see all the little red dots tainting his skin.

I want to slam my head back in his face, claw my nails on his skin until I shred it and his blood pours. I want to hear HIM scream. I want to hurt him the way he's hurt me!

Well KILL me, already!

Or I'll kill YOU.