Monomaniac

Chapter 8

Ophelia

PENELOPE'S FUNERAL IS A LOVE LETTER written by her family through heartsick tears and memories now pointed to the damp earth; the resounding sense of injustice tinged in despair staining the faces of all attendants.

"Why her?" has been the same question asked over each coffin, at every service I have ever attended, and this one is no different. To this day I still don't know the answer, and something tells me I never will.

In contrast, pastel floral arrangements and chairs draped in silk ribbons are scattered in front of her freshly dug resting place. At least, through the tragedy of it all, she won't be alone. Her mother, who died several years ago of an untreatable disease, now rests eternally at the right side of her little girl.

Regrettably, Mr. Graham will mourn his loss alone at the foot of their marital bed, with no knees to cling on to.

A sense of relief at the thought of her finally being found hangs in the air, followed by grief for the way she spent her last days on earth. Or, rather, how she gave her all to survive them.

Even though, I assume, everyone here held in their souls an undying hope that they would have her by their side on this frigid October day. At this time, she would have been preparing for the upcoming holidays and to perform her choreography on ice, which I heard she had practiced for months in advance.

It took just over twelve hours for her body to be exhumed, though authorities did their best to make it happen sooner and faster, despite the legal requirements on disturbing private property without the proper paperwork.

Her grave was shallow – a weak effort from the specimen who committed the unimaginable. The thought that he is probably wandering the crowded streets, undetected and looking for his next victim, is both petrifying and repulsive.

An autopsy later revealed that Penelope's life had been taken two days earlier, although she had been missing for over two weeks.

Poor soul, I can’t imagine the hell she has been through.

I dedicated myself fully to somehow pierce through the mind of her murderer, but the only thing I could see was a dark fog; the utter malevolence surrounding him almost shocking me into fainting.

Perhaps, at this point, I'm too weak for such a taxing ordeal. Or it could be that my own spirit is protecting me from his vileness, which I can't access without losing a part of myself. It wouldn't be the first time.

Detective Logan, a man in his late forties with graying hair and an ever sour disposition, approaches me as I observe from a distance Penelope's brother, to whom no one is paying attention at the moment.

In a painful way, he resembles a younger version of me; his desolate eyes lingering on his sister’s coffin while trying his hardest to keep the tears at bay.

He will learn to swallow them all by nightfall, as we all have – without anyone ever teaching us how.

"What a shame," the detective says in a gruff voice, trying to sound unaffected by the nature of his profession, when in reality he is just as human as everyone else here.

Predictably, he reaches for his tie the moment he meets my gaze, as if it were a cross he can hold on to for protection.

People and their fear. Does he not see that the real danger is often dressed up in what most consider the image of normalcy?

"As always," I say in a distant voice, digging my hands deeper into my coat, not being in the mood for one of his interrogations.

We have worked together several times over the years and I hope that these occasions will become rarer as time goes by. Fortunately, he only reaches out to me when a case goes cold and he's pressured for answers by his superiors or the public. Only in between these cases do I have the time to pour over the ones that are at least a decade old and left in a drawer to collect dust.

"Her father reached out to you without our knowledge," he says reproachfully, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and handing it to me after he lights himself one.

"He was desperate. You know very well how it works," I say, refusing his offering, the act of sharing vices too intimate.

I watch him sigh out of the corner of my eye as he nervously fixes the brim of his dark blue hat, looking at me with something akin to apprehension. Not a good sign.

"One more girl at the border met the same fate a few weeks back. The mortician concluded she had died from severe trauma to the head twenty four hours before she was buried behind an abandoned mill. Just like Penelope Graham here" he says matter of factly as he exhales.

"An identical replica of this case was discovered eight months ago, less than a few miles from here. We have a serial killer on our hands, and he's getting bolder, more comfortable. He needs to be stopped before he does something of drastic proportions," he says, stepping over the half-finished smoke.

I inhale deeply the funeral air that reminds me of home, while the scent of freesias and the looming rain marginally clears my mind.

"Do you need my help?" I offer, not waiting for the question he's always hesitant to ask out of pride.

If it were any other day, I'd beat him at his own game and feign indifference for a minute or two until he'd start grimacing. Instead, as he takes his time to respond, I raise an eyebrow and silently let him know that the reason we're here has little to do with his career or his grand ideas of self-importance. It was never about our egos.

"Yeah, that would be appreciated," he sighs as he pulls from his coat a manila folder that most likely contains details of the cases, similarities between them and photos of the victims.

"Call me if you find anything else," he says, tipping his hat and heading towards his crew as I fold it in half and tuck it into my bag. God, will it ever end?

With unfocused eyes, I look at nothing in particular, detaching myself from the crowd that has thickened and the sorrow around me.

It's not uncommon to feel watched in a cemetery. I've experienced this feeling since I was about six years old while playing hide-and-seek with Caroline among the graves. I remember so vividly feeling her breath down the back of my neck, only to turn around and face nothingness.

Later in life I learned to control and master their call, to discern the difference between a light entity and a passing spirit; the apparitions becoming fewer and farther in between as I studied how to preserve my energy while using my abilities only when truly necessary.

And yet, at present, I sense that I am being watched. Not by a spirit, at least not by one devoid of a physical body. Someone has me in their sights and I don't take kindly to it, especially when I don't know the reason behind it. I can deal with curiosity, but to be dissected so openly is another story altogether.

My inner voice guides my gaze to the myriad of souls that surround the funeral grounds, whispering to me from a place deep within to pay attention; to see beyond the veil of grief and hopelessness that could suffocate if given hands and a willing throat.

It is well known that there are individuals who draw a sick kind of pleasure from the aftermath of their depraved actions. Enjoying the act of revisiting their victims, of witnessing the lengths of the misery they caused and left behind, gloating at the sight of their latest cruel act.

Seeking a much-needed breather, I wander up an unpaved path on a nearby hill, fairly close to the service. The long row of evergreen trees at the edge of the higher ground keeps me hidden as I glance over each soul who has come to say their farewell to Penelope for the final time.

A thick mist shrouds the vast cemetery like a tightly woven web that knows no bounds, fine drops coating my lashes and wetting my lips as I allow myself to see beyond.

I close my eyes as I center myself, the auras of the mourners appearing like fireflies in the night; their intensity, color and size varying. Some of them are a bright red that pulsates like an organ in the open, while others are pale and shriveled into themselves like dried fruit, barely clinging to their bodies.

However, none of them seem out of the ordinary. There is no undertone that reminds me of anything rotten or of the kind belonging to someone who might be capable of such horrible acts.

Then, as if materialized out of thin air... I feel him .

I pretend to be unaware, even though I shiver from his shadow touching the same patch of land as mine. I swallow in a dry breath, blindly approaching the only oak tree in front of me; needing, for some reason, to experience him in privacy, away from the prying eyes of the world.

It's been four days since he appeared in my kitchen like a thief in the night, stealing a slice of my sanity after dicing it up and gifting me a jar of teeth. Beyond the questionable nature of these actions, he remained sealed within the walls of my mind; preserved like a sin I never want anyone else to know about. Not out of shame or fear. No, that would be against my nature, but out of pure selfishness.

I've always been this way whenever I crave something, whether it's good or bad, because altogether I want so little.

It's been what seems like a lifetime since a worldly thing has gripped me and was able to hold me for more than a few seconds.

Now, with him breathing down the back of my neck – reminding me of that ghost from so long ago who would rather hunt me than hide away in the morning light, I don't know if I have the strength to look away.

Ever so slowly, I turn around, no longer able to contain the urge to have him in my sights.

God, his eyes alone could reduce me to powder if he wanted to.

Exhaling slowly, I lean my back against the tree with my hands rooted deep in the trunk behind me; the act of tracing his towering frame seeming almost forbidden in the harsh light of day.

His dark curls are cloaked by a hood, while his statuesque, powerful body is encased in a long black coat that reaches down to his ankles covered in the same boots in which he crept so stealthily across my living room floor. The marbled paleness of his face is still concealed by the plain black mask he had worn that night, leaving me having to repress my craving for his lips yet again.

From this image alone – with him leaning against a nearby tree, having his hands in his coat pockets and watching me with the intensity of a sword poised on fresh dough, I could describe him to be as beautiful as the angel of death. But he's no angel, and we both know it.

The intoxicating smell of his wooden smoke and those eyes that pin me in place with their unwavering force, change something in me and giving it a name is the last thing I want to do when the real mystery is why he's haunting me in the first place.

Only the ravens and the wailing cries down the hill interrupt the penetrating silence between us, in the middle of which something remains unspoken – a forgotten fire whose existence is known only by the two of us.

He moves towards me like a feline that has just awoken from a state of sedation, until the tips of our shoes touch once more; as if to say that no matter what, we will inevitably always face each other.

A molten emotion swims within his bottomless eyes, almost provoking me. Not to react or do anything per se, but rather to dare feel what he feels beyond logic or reason.

I don't know what he sees in my eyes in response, but it's reason enough for him to raise his hand and wrap it around my neck – tenderly, possessively, the act alone erasing the existence of anything or anyone else but him as he inches closer to me.

The idea that he has such power and dominion over my being doesn't sit well with me. Not when he guards all the answers I need to know in order to understand; not when he so visibly desires me, but crosses all my boundaries with no remorse.

I look up at him with clouded eyes, trying not to reveal how much he affects me as his finger caresses my pulse point with slow, languid strokes; loosening my knees with each touch of his leather covered fingers on my exposed skin.

However, I fear that my efforts are in vain, as I can see his satisfaction beneath the mask that reaches up to his eyes, most likely directed at the feel of my blood simmering for him like a brewing potion.

With an intensity I've never lived before, he lowers himself to my eye level, seeing straight into one of the most hidden chambers of me; without a key or an elixir that could get me drunk on deception and empty promises.

No, he just looks at me, or rather, into me. Not at my body, my abilities or what they might do for him; not at my false self that I've learned to wear like a second skin to survive beyond the age of sixteen.

No man has ever looked at me this way, making me feel naked despite the layers of fabrics between us as he unveils my soul. But above all, the most remarkable thing is that I don't feel the need to shroud myself in darkness under his perusing gaze.

Like a little girl afraid to be seen for who she really is when no one is watching, I want to fall to my knees; to wrap my arms around his leg and hide my face in him.

I don’t think he understands what he is doing to me. The doors he unknowingly forces open, reducing me to something of a relic, with him being the one holding the brush and dusting away at what's eating me from the inside.

There is nothing more frightening in this world, more wounding than being seen for who you really are and facing the fear that in most cases you will be dissected, judged and ultimately replaced once that curiosity dies a premature death.

For this reason, whatever nameless thing is happening between us can’t take place. Not when I feel this vulnerable before him and he remains the hidden, untouchable man at the back of my conscience.

I feel him pulsing like an open wound, his dark energy fields retracting and crushing into mine. My heart, my wanting heart, throbs in my throat as they merge so seamlessly and feast on one another.

Still, it is not enough.

"What do you want from me?" I ask with the voice I usually use while talking to myself.

Why does it feel just as natural? Is it because I know an answer won't come, but still hope for one? Or is it simply him?

As expected, he doesn't say a word, but steals mine off the tip of my tongue when he leans into me – close enough to feel the hard ridges of his body and make me drown in his dilated pupils that are barely visible against the charcoal of his irises.

The rough bark of the tree digs into my spine while I try to inch away and create a slight distance between us. Not because I want to separate myself from him, on the contrary.

I need him closer and this is the only way at this moment in time where I can feel how far he is willing to stretch the ribbon between us.

He doesn’t waste a second, pinning me in place and sealing us back together while his soul absorbing energy taunts me to even dare think I can escape him.

I drink him in, the inches between us making this mysterious man substantial, almost palpable in the daylight; the memory of him now seeming vague and untranslatable compared to the reality that leaves me aching for air once again.

The power radiating off him feels like a freshly sharpened knife grazing the surface of my skin, his hand around my neck grounding me rather than trapping me against him. Oddly, I don't feel like prey under his possessive hold, but as an extension of his influence.

"Why won't you tell me…hmm?" I taunt, letting go of the fear holding me back, as I raise my hand and ghost my fingers over his covered lips.

The barely there sound of him inhaling at the contact, touches something deep within the morrow of my bones; that second of his unveiled vulnerability letting me know I have my own brand of power over him.

This alone gives me the courage to rise on my tiptoes, remove my fingers from the mask and shadow my lips over his covered ones, painstakingly close yet not close enough to touch. Not yet, although, I can almost feel their heat, their call, their promise to devastate me at the first taste.

His eyes are aflame to the point of being frightening, making me rub my thighs in need at the sight.

Now, the necessity to uncover the mystery hidden underneath has grown into something of vital importance; not because I want to see his face, but because I want to see him .

He rips his face away from me the second he feels my nails trying to slip beneath the cotton, yet his body clings on to mine, with his capturing forearms on both sides of my head.

"I won’t. Trust me," I whisper, trying to make him understand that I don’t want to access that part of him out of mere curiosity or for a personal agenda. I am well aware he has chosen to hide his identity for a reason, and for one unknown to me, I want to respect his choice of anonymity for the time being.

It may be because he intrigues me, because I'd like to play with a fire controlled by a man who seems to know a thing or two about taming it, or simply because I want him on a soul level; above societal norms and its stifling laws that mean so little to me.

In this moment, he reminds me of something buried deep inside me – an entity far removed from perfection, whose beauty lies precisely in its poetically dirty and cracked nature.

Since I was young I understood the power of keeping myself hidden; of being the thing you can see but cannot touch, because in truth I was never fully there to begin with. Much like my spirits, which somehow mirrored me or I them, since they partly encountered the same hardships I did, albeit on a much larger scale.

Being invisible and revealing myself on the rare occasions I find it worthwhile has become almost a practice with religious ramifications, which is why I understand his need to protect what is buried deep inside, whether skin deep or not.

We all have our reasons, and I hope that in time he will reveal his, just like I read in his eyes that he wants mine.

Keeping my eyes open becomes a silent struggle as his hands trace my ribcage, his breathing becoming shallower with each brush of his nose against my cheek, as if giving me silent permission to touch him.

I feel myself crumble at his act of trust and decision to be vulnerable with me in this morbid tango, which he wants us to dance until our steps lead to a conclusion.

With his permission, I let my sharp stiletto nails slip behind the mask and I still. My eyes fog with unshed tears as I feel his smooth jaw marked by scar tissue, the sensation of tracing each one squeezing my heart with unspoken distress. I curl my fingers higher, longing to feel the tender flesh of his lips beneath them, hoping he can read in my eyes how much I need to simply exist over his skin.

They are as wickedly tempting as I thought – smooth and sultry, the barely there scars covering them not taking away from their allure.

He opens his mouth slightly and it feels like the perfect opening for my fingers to slip inside.

In that instant his tongue meets my flesh for the first time as if he already knew my craving. Wet and warm, he marks me while he grazes them with his teeth and softly bites on the tips. I almost faint at the heady sensation, my knees weakening with every lick binding me to him.

A burning need to be consumed by this magnetic man only, wets my lace thong while shaking me to the core; making me wish it were my tongue against his sinning one instead of my fingers.

I can't contain the moans that escape from deep inside me when he catches my wrist and softly bites. The unrestrained sound makes him continue to suck me in deeper with the thirst of a parched man left to die in a deserted land, having just found his oasis.

I think I'll remember even in the afterlife the first time I tasted his voice, both lost and found in a cemetery, in the middle of a burial of all places; pinned high on an oak tree as the priest just began the funeral ceremony for Penelope Graham.

His low groan, uncontained and so distinctly masculine, speaks of grief and volatile need, my head swimming with a foreign desire as I tilt it higher on the trunk, with only the barren branches above as witness.

"Why won't you stay away?" I whisper, gripping the lapel of his coat; frustrated at the small distance he maintains between us, as if he wouldn't be able to resist my call if he leaned a millimeter nearer. "Why won't you come closer?" I breathe, surpassing any pretense of restraint at this point.

His eyes narrow as if what I've just asked has touched a place in him I shouldn't have. A few seconds pass before he brings his forehead closer to mine, soft strands touching my skin as a warning, a silent incentive to beckon him again; regardless of his silence.

"Did you hurt him because of me? For me?" I ask, trying not to drown in the intimacy between us. Hoping against hope, that he will at least offer me a thread of something resembling an answer.

Deliberately, without a drop of regret in his eyes, he tells me everything I need to know with one slow blink.

"I could lie and be a martyr, but I think it's already too late for that," I proclaim, resting in his piercing energy as I slowly pull my finger out of his mouth.

He's patient, watching me latently as I whisper a sincere "Thank you" over his cupid's bow – both ashamed of my blunt honesty and not quite.

Not when I know that a man who wanted me dead, and almost succeeded, could and probably would have repeated those actions on someone else without a second thought if the opportunity had arisen.

If that makes me a hypocrite, so be it. All I ever wanted was to extend my gifts to the victims; it is not my duty to protect nor to be the executioner of those who intentionally hurt others just to feed their sick urges.

What is more, if I know anything for certain about this mystery man, is that he may have taken the life of one of them, but he is the furthest thing from those detestable specimens.

And this moment, nestled in his arms, solidifies it. I feel seen, protected, knowing that a stranger saw me bleeding and didn't turn his back on me. In the end, justice has been served, perhaps as it was meant to be from the beginning, independent of us or our actions.

I can feel him stilling at the sound of my gratitude, catching me by surprise as he brushes his covered lips over my chin – our mouths creating a circuit of something vital and addictive. Only ours.

On the verge of losing myself, I feel him suddenly stiffening as he grips my arms, forcing me back to earth. I want to raise my head and read him, but his hand is already resting on my cheek, holding me still as he stares intently at something in the distance, absently stroking the side of my face in an attempt to keep me calm.

What does he see?

His eyes snap back in an instant, looking at me with a potency I would need a lifetime to fully assimilate. Without any explanation, he runs his ring finger over my neck before turning my body away from him, making me face the bark. His lips press against the crown of my head for the briefest of seconds before I feel him pull away.

He's leaving; I can smell it in the air around us. The scent of absence permeates my skin as I wake from his morbid reverie, a sense of desolation spreading over me like orphan roots.

It's too early to be this consumed, the way he makes me feel – too volatile; but who said that what takes shape between us has a deadline to follow closely? All I know is that I want to bathe in him until I forget about things not worth remembering. About reality as a whole.

And yet, when he vanishes for the second time, silent as a thief and with my hunger in his pocket, I don't know what to feel. I despise the sense of being left behind, but the voice in the back of my mind insists that I be patient, that I trust the path I’m being led on against all odds.

I let a minute pass, trying to gather some semblance of control over my being that he has so easily woven into something I no longer fully recognize.

As I head down the path leading down the hill, I notice that the service is over and the memorial site is deserted except for a handful of crows scattered close by.

Amidst the eerie silence, however, something peculiar happens as I make my way to Penelope's headstone. Near the tree line, I spot a man in his forties standing perfectly still, hands in his leather jacket. Hidden in plain sight, he stares intently at her grave.

Even though I can't distinguish his features clearly, I sense something chilling about him; bizarre in the nature in which he tilts his head slightly to the right, as if fascinated by the freshly dug earth. The energy radiating from him feels like needles soaked in snake venom all over my exposed skin and I desperately want to hide the more I feel it.

An engine starting nearby interrupts his rapt attention, our eyes meeting briefly in that moment.

That second is all I need...to know.

And he sees it written all over my face, even as I try to hide it. A predator will always feel he has been detected, whilst secretly enjoying the act of reliving the sight of his carnage.

He obviously couldn't stay away for long, needing to witness the consequence of his cruelty, of all the suffering he caused.

At this thought, a sole cold shiver runs through my entire body, the taste of something rotten coating the inside of my mouth only at feeling his presence near me.

Just the idea of him coming closer triggers an instinctive need to run as far as my legs can carry me and not look back. I can't imagine what those poor girls must have felt in their last moments at his hands.

Our silent exchange doesn't last more than a few seconds, but it's enough for him to know it's time to leave the scene; but not before he licks his lips with a spiteful expression on his blank face as he watches me with resolve.

I don't want to think about the meaning behind it. At least not until I'm hidden in the safety of my home and far away from the rotten thing he nurtures inside of him like a host.

When he finally disappears from my line of view with measured, hurried steps, I breathe a sigh of relief. A lone crow approaches me and nibbles at my boots, as if trying to tell me that now it is safe enough to breathe.

I blink once, twice, shaking off what he left behind and text Detective Logan that I may have seen a person of interest along with the faint details I registered about him.

"I need your help," I whisper over Penelope's resting place, fearing that this could be only the beginning.

* * *

The sea salt at the bottom of the bathtub hasn't dissolved yet, the sharp edges cutting into my sensitive skin as the minutes tick by until I eventually feel it disappear underneath me.

This small pain – it keeps me grounded.

I want to be gone. I want him to stay.

He used one of the dark orchid bath effervescences I made earlier this month, the water morphing into an opaque black that shimmers like a sea of unblinking eyes the deeper I sink.

This man made of secrets and smoke drew me a bath and now I feel very safe. I no longer ask why, I just let myself feel.

I sensed him the second I turned the key in the lock after returning home from a day spent with Caroline preparing someone for a wake while I worked on gaining a sense of normalcy. The stark contrast really brought things into perspective.

I needed some time away from it all, the kind where we could talk about nothing and ultimately share a laugh at the bleakness of life. It was simple and surface-easy, both of our minds revolving around our individual secrets. Yet we pretended and it was as simple as breathing.

It's always been that way with me and other people, no matter how dear they are to me. There is this wall separating me from what most consider accessible since birth. I only know how to reach out into the vast darkness of the unknown and wait for what the eyes cannot see.

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to be alive, unafraid to simply...be. There had always been this gap over which I was unwilling to build a bridge over, at least not until he sat down at my table and opened my soul like a decadent entrée, all neat and chaotic.

I could have looked for him in my study, under my bed, behind the curtains. Instead, I chose not to, as I pretended ignorance and slipped off my heels.

Knowing he's not hiding or looking to be found is a given. The years in our eyes have long since outweighed the need for playing games. Old souls are hungry for blood only, and fatigue demands it in its still waters.

He keeps crossing my borders and stretching them thin, showing me something better and I can't lie– it feels good to be so wanted to the point of erased morals, rules and comfort.

Beyond his actions, lack of words and anonymity, his eyes alone reveal enough to me. If I told him to never set foot in my apartment uninvited again, he would respect my wish. I also know he'll be waiting for me, after somehow creeping all the way up to my eleventh-floor balcony.

He's peculiar, enigmatic and intense to the point of sickness, but so am I. Why would I refuse a part of myself that has been hidden and neglected, when all this time it has been waiting for him?

A few minutes pass while I sit still, covered in darkness and silence. I feel untouchable and, for the first time in many years, not so alone.

When I open them, he's in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets. The lamplight kisses the side of his body in a warm glow, creating a mesmerizing contrast to those eyes that are currently eating me alive, limb by wet limb.

This beautifully raw man is the picture of quiet confidence mixed with the kind of tiredness that only someone who has been through hell and survived it knows. I find him poetically imperfect, but whole enough to keep standing. Tonight, above all, he appears utterly human.

The crumpled black sweater covering his broad chest, loose pants, bare feet and ruffled hair give me a vivid picture of what he did in my apartment while I was away.

I wonder if he fell asleep in my study while losing himself in my grimoire or in my bed, smelling my sheets just before drifting off into a world I know nothing of; if he sleeps well at night, if he medicates it, if he's haunted by something out of his control.

I also wonder if he'll ever let me know the answer to any of these questions. The unknown is not something I am accustomed to.

By now, the silence between us is both familiar and comforting, though I need more from him. That aside, there is something almost precious in the way we are growing to communicate without words and with our eyes alone; the way our limbs move according to the other, as if we now have our own secret language.

Strangers or not, we become a piece with its own rhythm and valence, whose end I don't want to think about.

He comes closer, moving towards the vanity. I swallow dryly when I can clearly see the ink covering the entire surface of his neck as he pours us both a glass of red wine from a bottle I hadn't noticed before; my naked breasts pressing against the surface of the bathtub as he hands it to me.

Our fingers barely touch – his dry, mine wet; leaving me feeling that untranslatable current from the top of my head to the tips of my toes at the contact.

Even though I find myself in a vulnerable position, naked and facing someone I know has a lethal side to him – I feel strangely protected, cherished, seen.

He is in control, as he has been from the beginning, shrouded in both layers and darkness, while I float bare and dripping not three feet away from him.

And it is quiet, while outside it rains and breathing is enough.

"Had a good day?" I ask as if it were our regular nightly routine, with me having a bath and him sitting at my feet while resting his back against the wall .

The way he looks at me, God . As if I were the only woman for him in this vast, painfully lonesome world.

No one had ever looked at me the way he does. I’ve been told I am beautiful in many words and ways, with both flourish and simplicity and I believed them all. Not out of vanity, but because they were merely observers admiring me from afar before moving on to the next prospect worthy of their temporary attention.

This enigma of a man not only sees me, but strips me of the years that have molded me into a being so translucent that I can barely see myself anymore. However, I no longer feel spectral, all because I come alive under the attentive touch of his eyes.

It's disarming, but like a perfume it's just the first note of his attention. The second feels like a warm hand laid over my heart, smelling of smoke and the removal of regret – a hand that will not harm me despite its claws. That's how careful he is.

And when I least expect it, something hypnotizing happens.

He raises two fingers in passing as a response, the gesture giving me the impression that the day has passed, no matter how bad or good it was; it just did. Still, he lifts his chin in my direction, as if to tell me he's here with me now, so nothing else matters anymore.

I understand the meaning behind the gesture more than he probably knows, because I feel it too.

Finally, he acknowledged one of my questions. What a strangely beautiful night. I look at him while he looks at me, the water gradually cooling, the minutes ticking by as the glasses empty.

"For some unfathomable reason, I don't want to run away when I have you near me," I confess in a whisper, feeling vulnerable and emotionally spent; wanting to offer something of my own in return.

At my words, he moves closer, as if the ribbon between us is getting shorter and the pull stronger.

His pupils dilate before my eyes with undisguised hunger while his breathing becomes ragged, widening his chest that I wish I could have under my ear one night. All the while my heart beats in an irregular rhythm against my ribcage, drops of water falling on the carpet beneath.

"I want to see you," I murmur, confessing my need, our faces now just a whisper apart.

I feel the warmth of his breath over my waiting mouth, begging him with my eyes to let go of whatever is holding him back and do what we both long for.

"I want to feel you," I continue in a trembling whisper.

Not a second goes by before his tongue tastes me.

God – his sinful tongue licking my pulse point, making the column of my neck become something sacred as he worships it with a hunger that makes me want to open my legs for him without shame or regret.

An uncontained moan slips from my lips only to be enveloped in his groan of pleasure.

That spot becomes the focal point of my existence, as I melt under every lick, every brush of those deliriant lips that I'm dying to feel over mine. Lost himself, he leaves a trail of wildfire in his wake, sucking the delicate spot once only before he removes them.

The feel of his teeth brushing against my sensitive skin is an art in itself, the sheer eroticism of that furtive touch holding the power to ignite a need that seems impossible to tame.

My eyes close when I feel him move away; subconsciously giving him the privacy I know he needs in order to cloak himself in secrets for one more night.

He runs his nose past the curve of my cheekbones, inhaling deeply before I hear him take something out of his pocket, the soft clink of metal touching the surface of the basin.

I move closer to the edge, careful to hide my nakedness as he slips something cold – a necklace around my neck, the pendant feeling smooth as glass and reaching just above the swell of my breasts.

In a soul-quivering motion, he traces his lips along the exposed chain like the wind on wet skin before a storm. All of my senses hunger for more, silently begging him to stay and show me everything he feels, he needs.

Before I can catch my breath, my enigma is already standing, appearing larger than death from this angle as his eyes give me one last longing look before he leaves the bathroom. Disappearing once again.

When I hear the soft click of the door, I submerge my head fully into the now cold water, wondering if there will ever be a time when he'll become something real; rather than a tangible ghost haunting my days and nights.