The Stalker
The elevator door dings, letting me know I’ve reached my floor.
A turn to the left takes me exactly where I want to be.
I pause, glancing at the door handle before reaching and pulling it open.
My boots carry me to the girl staring blankly in my direction.
All I can see are her eyes peering over the outdated, dusty computer.
I’ve been here once before, recently, actually.
“Hi, how can I help you?” the receptionist asks, awaiting my response. I look around the room, noticing the emptiness.
“Axel Gray?”
I nod.
“You can have a seat. They will bring you back shortly.”
I turn and head toward a single, lonely chair in the far corner of the room, with a view of the front office door. In the quiet, broken only by the clicking of a keyboard, my mind can’t help but trail off in thought.
“Ouch, Mommy, please stop! That hurts!” I yell in pain, but the pain doesn't stop. My arms shield my face from the swings of her wild arms. I know which hits will form into bruises. They sting a lot more, and the pain lingers longer.
“I wish I never had you, Axel! All you do is take from me.
I wasn't able to get my fix today because of you. Do you like seeing me this way? You made me this way!” my mommy yells, arms still swinging.
She never stops swinging. I fall onto the floor and shuffle to the corner until my back hits the cold, cracked wall.
“I’m sorry, Mommy, I’m sorry!” I cry out, but it falls on deaf ears.
“Axel Gray?” A faint angelic voice blesses my eardrums, and I whip my head to the left.
It's her. As I stand, I take notice that her eyes trail from my boots up to my eyes.
I tower over her, a whole foot taller to be exact.
The unspoken dominance of my stature, shadowing her petite frame, creates a silent pull between our bodies.
“I’m Axel Gray,” I say, extending my hand, ready for her delicate one to grasp mine.
“Oh, yes. Nice to meet you, Axel. I’m Dahlia Rosen.” Her hand reaches for mine. It’s small. Dainty. Manicured. My hand overtakes hers, leaving it barely visible beneath my own. The urge to brush my thumb across her soft skin is overwhelming, but I refrain.
“You can follow me to my office, and we can get started,” she says, turning down the long hall from the doorway where she’d been standing.
I follow closely. The footsteps of her boots and mine are the only noise taking space between the bland, tan-colored walls.
The sweet scent of vanilla and coconut trails behind her.
Fucking delicious.
We pass three doors on the left and two on the right before entering the third door on the left.
Her office is minimal, yet an elemental coziness becomes atmospheric.
Little trinkets sit scattered around the room, adding a touch of warmth.
Bookshelves line the wall to the left, coated in dust, as if they haven't been touched in years. Her office has a view of the city skyline below. It’s probably the best feature in her office, besides her, of course.
The windows lie bare. Natural light is the only source illuminating the office, at least during the day.
Her neatly organized desk occupies the rest of the area; only her computer, notepads, pens, and a few manila folders sit on its smooth surface.
A coffee table is placed at a perfect distance between her chair and the sofa I assume is for clients.
“Please have a seat on the couch, Axel. Make yourself comfy first before we start,” she gestures to the brown leather sofa six feet away from the chair she perches herself upon.
I want to be closer to her.
I sit sprawled back like I own the place, and my leg begins to bounce in anticipation. She grabs a pen and a notepad, placing them on her lap. She's wearing a hunter-green dress with black tights underneath that make me want to tear a hole in them with my teeth.
“So, tell me a bit about yourself and why you're here? I looked at your file, and it seems like you have been here once before?” she questions politely.
“The person I saw before wasn't a great… fit,” I say condescendingly. She takes a moment before responding, not expecting the tone.
“Sometimes finding the right therapist can be like trying on a pair of jeans.
They sometimes don't fit correctly, or something doesn't feel quite right, and that's alright. You just grab a new pair, try that one on, and hope it fits better.” The analogy brings a smirk to my face.
Oh, I know she's the right one for me. It only took one glance to know that.
“So, who is Axel Gray? Tell me a little about yourself,” she asks, shortening the silence.
Do I start with, “Hi, I’m your stalker?” Or maybe, “I’ve been watching you for weeks.
” Perhaps a good icebreaker would be, “I know what your favorite color is and how you like to put hazelnut in your coffee.” What about, “I was in your bedroom the other night, watching you sleep. Feeling you, touching you, rubbing against you.”
Dumb girl, so unaware of her surroundings. Letting herself get drugged. She is lucky that I love the thrill of the game almost as much as I love catching my prey. Fucking with people’s psyches gets me off. So what?
I adjust in my seat, not straying from eye contact, shifting to an almost predatory glare. I watch as her throat bobs up and down, gently swallowing in nervousness. Something within me ignites, burning a possessive flame in my core.
“Well, Dahlia, I’m here because I've been told there is something… wrong with me. And I’m seeing if you're the one who can help.” My words come out slowly.
Venomously. Teasingly. She is so close but so fucking far.
I want to grab her and pin her on the coffee table that's separating the distance between us.
I want to watch her squirm underneath me as she begs me to let her go, even though we both know she wouldn't want me to.
The way her eye contact is charged with lust, seeing the shallow breaths she is trying so hard to conceal. Reminds me of the way she eye-fucked me in the club.
She glances away.
You can't hide from me, Little Flower. Not where I won't find you.
“I don't believe there is anything wrong with people.
We are all a little different in our own ways, Axel.
Some may need a little more assistance than others, but that doesn't make anyone…
wrong. How about we use the word unique instead of wrong?
Being kinder to ourselves can help change our own perspective and narrative on how we see ourselves.
Even if it's just as simple as changing a word like, wrong.” My head tilts slightly, considering her words.
“But what if there is something wrong with me? Let's say I’ve been told I'm not wired correctly. I'm incapable of understanding regular emotions.” The statement leaves my lips almost playfully.
“Who have you seen in the past besides your one visit to this office? I’m hoping no one told you there is something wrong with you. What an awful experience you may have had.”
“I’ve seen psychiatrists, doctors, therapists, guards, you name it.” My brow slightly rises as I watch her face react. It was subtle, as subtle as a second, but I saw the uncertainty. She takes a moment to gather a response, looking at her notepad before meeting my eyes with hers once again.
“Well, we can dive into all of that at a later time. Today is about getting comfortable with one another and touching on the basics. If that’s okay with you, Mr. Gray?” Her tone shifts, confident.
A full smile uncontrollably overtakes my face, leaving my dimples to cave in. My girl isn't afraid to hold her own. I’m going to love this relationship of ours.