I walk past the desk first, skimming the top of it with my hand. There's nothing on it but a lamp, a silver pen, and a leather journal.
I take a step closer to the bed.
She’s on her side, facing the windows. One arm above her head. Her breathing is slow and even. Her lips are parted just a little. There's a slight dent in the pillow where her mouth rests.
I could make a sound right now, and she would wake up, and it’s moments like these that remind me to be patient. That in the end, my silence will all be worth it.
Her vanity’s next. I pick up the only bottle of perfume sitting on the dark wood and take a deep inhale, nearly pressing the bottle to my lips. A fresh green smell of apples and honey. It’s what the room smells like, what she smells like. I can’t wait to smell it on her skin.
I hate how fucking painful it feels to wait. I hate what she does to me. It feels like a punch to the gut every time I’m in the same room as her. How much of me she already absorbs; my time, my thoughts.
I go to her bathroom that also lies nearly untouched: white tile, brass fixtures, a towel perfectly folded on the bar. One toothbrush with a pale pink handle, with her initials carved onto it in neat gold foil. “MLHR”
Does she like her surroundings this clean, or is this how it’s kept for her?
Should I lock her up in my bedroom for a week without visitors just to see how she’d care for it?
I take her toothbrush, slide it into my suit pocket, and start opening her drawers. Creams, makeup, and a hairbrush with a bit of her blonde hair in it. Maybe I’ll take that next time.
I don’t need her noticing the small gifts she’s been giving me.
I close the drawer, forcing myself to be soft with my movements. Fighting the urge to slam it and wake her. I want to see her terrified. Chest heaving with a scream on her lips, knowing with a sickening satisfaction that I was the man who put it there.
Back in the bedroom, she shifts under the covers. Her knee moves, but that’s all.
There’s a chair in the corner where I like to sit and watch her. I go to it soundlessly and take my usual seat.
It’s not the kind of watching that means anything. I’m not looking for a reaction. I’m not waiting for her to wake up. I enjoy watching her stillness or her soft movements in her sleep.
Sometimes I read her diary while I sit and wait. The creature she’s convinced she is in the pages doesn’t compare to the woman I’ve seen. Soon, there will be a time when I can have her. Take her and unravel her into the monster she truly is. Just like me.
She won't believe me at first, but I know it’s in there.
I sit here for an hour. Maybe longer.
Looking at her hands. At her beautifully rounded lips.
Her nails are short and clean, with a light layer of clear polish, and she doesn’t wear makeup to sleep, either.
I try to imagine what her voice sounds like when she wakes up, if it’s scratchy or soft.
I lean forward.
Close enough to see the tiny freckle near her temple. There’s a crease above her brow from whatever she’s dreaming about in her sleep.
For a moment, my breath hitches as she stirs.
I go still, clenching my hand on my knee.
But she doesn’t wake. Just rolls to her side and exhales, chest rising under the sheets.
I don’t know why I’m still here.
But I don’t move.
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Present Day
