10. Dane
10
DANE
I t isn’t difficult to learn how to pick a lock; all the information is readily available on the internet, including practice kits. It only takes a bit of time and concentration to acquire the necessary skillset.
The lock on Abigail’s aged front door is simple enough. It clicks softly, permitting me entry. The rusty hinges squeak as I push my way inside her private space, but I’m not concerned about the noise.
She isn’t home to hear my break-in, and her neighbors won’t think the sound is out of the ordinary in their creaky old building. I know for a fact that she’s currently out with Franklin, probably on her first cheap beer of the night at the dive bar they like to frequent.
It’s only eight-thirty, just dark enough for me to slip into her building in my baseball cap without anyone taking note of my presence.
Now, I can see her personal space up close. I plan to scour her apartment for clues about what makes her tick. She will submit to me. I just have to figure out the best way to seduce her.
She consumes my thoughts, and as much as I’m enjoying the novelty of these feelings that she brings out in me, I can’t abide the imbalance between us.
I didn’t go to the café this morning; I won’t see her again until I know exactly how to woo her. My control nearly cracked when we exchanged dark fantasies online last night, after she fled from our date.
Something sours my stomach. Jealousy again.
I’m jealous of my own online persona. Abigail trusts GentAnon with her intimate secrets, but she cringed and ran when I kissed her in person.
I shake off the ridiculous notion that I’m envious of myself. I’ll have all of Abigail soon enough.
With any luck, I’ll find what I need to seduce her during this clandestine exploration of her private space.
I decide not to risk turning on the overhead light. The streetlight outside casts an eerie green glow through the tiny apartment, and that’s enough for me to navigate the small space.
Her front door opens directly into an area that could generously be called a living room. Her kitchen is to my right, and her couch is to my left. In between, her easel is propped up without a canvas. She never puts the easel away, as though she can’t bear to spare even a few moments setting up when she feels the feverish drive to paint.
Peculiarly, the peeling wallpaper that surrounds me is devoid of art. Does she find it distracting to her creative process? Why doesn’t she hang her own paintings in her living space?
A keen, gnawing sensation hollows my stomach, both irritating and fascinating. I think this strange discomfort must be what desire feels like. Not sexual desire, but an emptiness that can only be satisfied by intimate knowledge about the object of my obsession.
I shake off the unpleasant, distracting sensation and take two steps into her cramped kitchen. It’s only a matter of minutes for me to determine that there’s very little food in her cupboards—boxed macaroni and cheese is shelved between tinned ravioli and a massive tub of creamy peanut butter. The fridge houses a few wilting vegetables.
Abigail has a willowy frame, and I wonder if she makes an effort to maintain a trim figure or if she simply can’t afford more food.
In the freezer, I find a single pint of ice cream: Belgian chocolate flavor. Her one indulgence amongst supermarket-brand basics.
I make a mental note of it. Once she agrees to another date, I can use this knowledge.
But it’s not nearly enough. I already know that Abigail is fond of sweet treats because of the silly badges she wears on her work apron. Usually, I would find an adult woman’s affinity for such things childish and a bit idiotic, but with her, I’m charmed. Each little enamel pin is a clue to her quirks and personal preferences, and I’ll eagerly study every small eccentricity that might reveal her secrets.
I cross back into the living room, spanning the small space in four paces to reach her bedroom. It’s barely big enough for a twin sized bed, which is tucked into a corner beside the only window. The view shows peeling yellow paint on the building next door, and nothing else.
Abigail’s art showcases the natural world. Surely, she must feel stifled in this cramped, urban space?
The gnawing sensation has returned. I grimace and choose to ignore it.
A quick perusal through her drawers tells me that she either doesn’t care much for fashion, or she can only afford a few basic items. I recognize the simple, soft black t-shirts she wears for her barista job. There are a few more delicate tops mixed in: camisoles with paint stains.
I trace the shape of a particularly beautiful spray of azure on the neckline of a pale pink top. The colors are barely discernible in the dim lighting, but I imagine the blue hue is similar to the remarkable shade of her eyes.
My fist closes around the soft cotton, and before I can think better of it, I tuck the small shirt into my pocket. She might miss it, but I know she does her laundry in an aging machine that’s shared by all six apartments in her building. If she can’t find the top later, she’ll assume she lost it there.
I try not to think too much about my rash act of possessiveness and turn my attention to the knickknacks on top of her dresser. There are three unicorn figurines in various poses—two of cheap plastic and one fashioned in clay with a pearlescent glaze.
I recognize Franklin’s signature style in the small sculpture. A sudden, vicious urge to smash the delicate figurine causes my fingers to flex with unspent aggression.
I take a breath and manage to quell the irrational impulse, reminding myself that he’s just her platonic friend. Abigail would be sad if I damaged her little treasure.
She’d probably be even more distraught if I damaged her friend with my fists.
Willing my fingers to my usual surgeon’s precision, I pluck up a more refined piece that’s tucked behind the others. This tiny, rearing carousel horse is clearly valuable in comparison, crafted in porcelain. But it’s almost completely hidden behind a neon sign, as though its monetary worth doesn’t mean much to Abigail.
If the sign were illuminated, the cursive script would read: live deliciously .
It suits her flair for whimsy.
I think about the pink and gold unicorn pin that’s a constant presence on her apron. Otherwise, various anthropomorphic cartoon foodstuffs seem to be on regular rotation amongst her badges. I’ve noted a cupcake, an iced coffee, a donut, and even a frowning broccoli.
There are two similar food-related pieces on her dresser alongside the figurines and neon sign, but these smiling toys are plush and stuffed with cotton wool. I brush my fingers over a velvet-soft avocado and a little pod of happy peas.
They’re mildly ridiculous, but I can’t help finding them fascinating. They’re childish toys for a woman in her mid-twenties, but Abigail seems to be an exception in so many ways. There’s a fragility beneath her cheery, sunshine smiles and shy glances, and although she doesn’t know it, I’ve glimpsed an alluring darkness at her core that calls to my own.
A bizarre desire to shelter and covet that sunshine girl wars with my craving to shatter her cheerful facade and reveal her darkest secrets.
My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the soft fabric of her paint-splattered camisole.
I force my fingers to unfurl and turn my attention back to her bedroom.
There’s a stack of books that can’t be contained by her small nightstand. The bedroom isn’t big enough for a proper bookshelf, but there must be at least three dozen titles in a haphazard array beside her bed.
I shake my head at the mess, but my disapproval of her disorganized nature doesn’t stop me from thumbing through the books. I recognize some of the more popular titles, and I get a sense that she enjoys fantasy novels with heavy romantic elements.
On her nightstand, a copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is well-worn, as though she’s read it several times. I check the book quickly, searching for any signs that she bought it secondhand.
No price stickers or penciled dollar amount on the interior.
It’s likely that she’s the one who damaged the binding while indulging in the story over and over again.
My touch lingers on the fine cracks that mar the spine, and I think about her long, elegant fingers caressing her beloved book.
This is what I came for, the reason I broke in. I’ve discovered one of her secrets, and I will leverage this vulnerability to my advantage.
I set the book down and turn to the final space in her apartment that I have yet to explore: her closet.
I grasp the small knob and have to tug it sharply to open the ill-fitted, shuttered door. After a stuck moment, it snaps toward me. Something lightweight but rigid falls forward, colliding with my thigh.
I curse softly and catch the canvases before they fall to the floor.
There’s a stack of them packed into the closet, and they’re about to tip over into the bedroom. Carefully, I tilt them back so that they rest against the interior wall.
There are only a few extra dresses tucked away in here. The space is dominated by more paintings that are stacked on three shelves. There must be scores of them hidden in darkness.
That irritating sensation gnaws at my gut again. This time, I don’t suppress it. I choose to indulge myself and sate my curiosity.
I pick up three of the larger canvases and place them on her bed. No one will see me through the bedroom window if I use the light on my phone. The building next door is mere feet away, close enough to touch if I were to open the window. There aren’t any vantage points to see into this room from outside.
My phone illuminates the first painting, and my breath catches.
Rough hemp rope digs into soft flesh. Her thigh cushions the bindings in creamy pillows, as though welcoming the painful bonds to sink deeper.
Another painting shows her delicate wrist, abraded from rope that’s been recently removed. The ecstatic high of release after being cruelly bound is evident in the gentle furl of her long fingers: blissful relaxation in the wake of being utterly devastated.
The third depicts a gloved hand encircling her pale throat, the black leather in shocking contrast to her creamy skin. Thick fingers sink into her neck beneath the soft taper of her jaw, restricting the blood flow through her carotid arteries. Her rosebud lips are parted—a gasp for air and a plea for further torment.
I’m not sure how long I indulge myself in her art, drinking in her twisted fantasies that match my own.
Abigail is perfect for me. I know that I can fulfil her darkest desires. She’s kept them secret from everyone, choosing to hide them away in her closet where no one can see her true artistic brilliance.
Does she hide them even from herself? Is that why her walls are devoid of art, and she keeps her masterpieces shrouded in shadows?
I revel in the gnawing sensation that torments me almost to the point of physical pain. This… feeling is a gift only she can give me. The semblance of emotion might be cruelly possessive—and maybe even a little malicious—but I learned to accept my monstrous nature a long time ago. With Abigail, I can fully indulge my darkest urges.
I just have to seduce her first.