Authors note: To Whom It May Concern,
This is not a story, it is a collection of ficlets, or one-shots if you will. These are not "flashbacks" or anything of this sort…just random short stories that I publish on this site for fun. BTW as aforementioned, the characters and all their personalities belong to the one and only mister Craig Bartlett, the renowned genius in my book. Maybe at one point my life I will write a big story with juicy chapters and everything, but for now, I think I'll just stick to my one-shots. (: enjoy.
BTW this is really just sort of reflective thoughts of a stalker. You know, because they have feelings too (:
As I walk by her house, I feel my heart beat faster and faster. Even though I do this every night, I can't help but feel nervous. The adrenaline pumping through my veins, while annoying, also reminds me that I am awake. It fuels me with unnatural gasoline that energizes me to the point of delirium. As much as I hate to admit it, I might be a little crazy, but in my book being crazy in love is a good thing. Standing near the intertwining roads and paved sidewalks that line her house, I can almost smell her touch on my skin. I can almost breathe her all in, even though I'm trying so hard not to get noticed. My daily visits to her house, more often than not, have a profound effect on my mental well-being. Although I am a crazy person, and realize it, standing outside her window and observing her is my saving grace. Who knows what other seemingly creepy things I would do if I didn't have her to stalk. These strange things would probably be worse than staring at a femme fatale through an obscure window. This sick obsession that ironically keeps me in line also serves as inspiration for my poetry. The rhythmic words that I produce by calligraphy derive from these late night visits to my beloved.
As I keep walking, now by her porch, I feel bold. I look around and find that her rich daddy is not home and her mother is probably with him, or cheating on him, whichever. This ideal situation sparks a divine conjecture in me; if her parents are not home, maybe she is gone too. I take the lacking cars in their open garage as a stigma further confirming my supposition. Dare I take a peek inside her humble abode? Yes, because I need some new hair to add to my collection. Yes, because I need some new dead flakes of skin to mollify my yearning for her at night. I dare, because I love her so deeply. As I climb through her all-too familiar red fire escape, I figure she won't mind if I take some of her shampoo. After all, that hair smells wonderful and that expensive liquid she washes her mane with must be the reason why.
As I climb through her unimpeded window, I take in the marvels of her life. I particularly note the box labeled "Secret Admirer", which I immediately open. I rummage through the carefully salvaged poetry to find that all the lyrics are there. She has actually kept all of the corny poetry I have stealthily placed in her locker. I find that to be quite interesting, given the fact that when she finds out I sent them, she'll probably burn them as well as herself for ever holding them in her highest esteem. As painful as that realization is, I still feel loved by her, even if she is doing so blindly. After rereading my mawkishly sentimental words to myself, I finally got back to work. I sought to find her hairbrush as well as her loofah to find DNA-containing particles.
As I wondered around her room, I was hit with a sense of familiarity. I knew the fluffy, rose-colored rug all too well. I had memorized the way the hearts curved around her delicate walls back when I was nine. I suddenly feel pathetic. I pine over this girl every day and I even dated her once. That went awfully terrible and sent me back to life under a rock for about a year. During which time I had somehow started writing poetry, and after which time I had begun to leave traces of it all around her. Mysteriously, I bathe her in my words of love and wisdom; all the while she dates other guys. Today, my original plan was to sneak into her home and rob her of her precious DNA-containing artifacts. Ce soir, I was bound for answers and led by feelings into her lucrative abode, thinking it was the best plan ever. I had led myself to believe that surreptitiously breaking into her home and stealing her personal artifacts would somehow merge our souls together.
My train of thought is suddenly cut off as I hear footsteps. They seem to come from under me; however they also seem to be coming closer. I wonder for a fourth of a second the proprietor of the feet making such noise. The masses heading towards me sound rugged, tired, yet all too happy to be alive. Drunk. Drunk is the first word that comes to mind as I place the poems back in their gold-brimmed silver box. I patiently recollect her belongings and set them in their designated positions. I have been in this situation before. I know how long it takes for her to reach her room. I acknowledge the fact that she is not alone as I hide myself in her polka dotted closet. I try to decipher her slurred language as I climb atop some sturdy yellow boxes that lead to her ventilation system. As I struggle to attain balance, after falsely believing a piece of clothing to be part of a box, I hear them talk. Their words sound like newborn babies with lack of pronunciation and nonexistent enunciation. I finally lift the ridged obstruction they call a "vent-cap" and push myself into the vent-system. Once there I slowly crawl through the provincial tunnel to the area directly above her bed. From this spot I can hear them talk; though I am not yet sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
Their words elucidate the closer I am from the perfect spot. This spot is like my second home. I come here very frequently and watch my soul mate breathe and do other ordinary things. Now that I am here, I can finally hear perfectly and see them too from the "vent-cap". I can feel my heart breaking as I discern the happenings below me. I can hear them perfectly well too, they keep breaking up in between moans, but besides that their talking is decently eloquent.
"Tomorrow…you…are…going to remember…this"
"Uh, baby…don't stop…of course… you're the… best I've ever…had"
"Will…you…go to prom with me?"
At this question, their "fun time" stops. I hear them both take deep breaths which could only signify the end.
"Of course I'll go to prom with you. You're like, amazing. My dad said that if you asked me, he'd get us a limo"
"Really? That's terribly, terribly, amazing."
"Yeah, of course. He also said I could have a soiree chez moi."
"That's incredible"
"Well, that's what you get, when your family is as rich as mine"
"That's awesome, I only wish I could provide you with such pricy trinkets"
"Oh, Iggy, You're so gallant. You can repay me with your good loving, besides this is the twenty first century, women can provide now and be socially acceptable."
"I'm still terribly, terribly, sorry I can't for you."
"It doesn't matter, don't worry. My daddy can give me anything I want. I don't need money and stuff from you, all I need is love."
I can feel my eyes tearing up. I hate to be on the outside looking in; especially when it comes to Rhonda, my love. I wish I could tell her how I feel. Throughout grade school, I would always profess my undying feelings towards her, but she would always turn me down. I guess after so much heartache, I decided to guard myself and just follow her around. Spying on her while going unnoticed is one of my most famed attributes. I have become a sneaky feller and have now gained access to every aspect of her life. Even though she does not know, I pride myself in my observations of her being. She has no idea, and I love that. She reads my heart every morning, I guard her safety from a couple of steps behind while she walks home, I am always helping her in trivial ways, but she has no idea! While I might act like I love that, I feel pathetic. I'm going to tell her at prom night how much I love her because if I keep with this charade, I'm only going to hurt myself. This inner torture I put myself through every day only exacerbates my feelings of negligence towards myself. I need to stop getting high off following her scent. I have to impede myself from collecting her hair. My pride is something to be shameful of. I love the secrecy of my actions, but I know they cannot be. After all, how would I feel if I was stalked by love?
At that I leave the vent system and her house. I climb down the fire escape as I always do. The only difference is that this is the last time. At this last moment, I leave her house; forever... and I'm going to tell her how I feel, or my name's not Thaddeus Curly Gammelthorpe.
