The Executioner

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My Stalker…


He is there watching, waiting, observing, plotting, planning and fantasizing about the day that he will make me his.


He is a rare breed, for he is only captivated by one.


His fantasies and his plotting are only directed towards one.


He is not a man that is tossed to and fro by every beautiful woman that crosses his path.


There is more to his obsession than that.


He exudes an energy and he is captivated by the prey of his choice, no one else will do but the one that he has chosen.


In his mind, it is as if no other exists, only his prey.


He studies me, not only where I go and what I do, but who I am and how I react.


He will have me one day, but in a sense he already does, for I am with him now.


I am in his thoughts, his dreams and his deepest and darkest fantasies.


Nothing will satisfy his obsession, only I will do, he is not like most men, tossed to and fro by every beautiful face, or body that comes down the pike.


No, I am the object of his obsession and whether I know it or not, I already belong to him, it is only a matter of time!

I know that I should be afraid, but I’m not.

I’m not sure what caught his interest, something that he witnessed me doing or saying must have triggered this need within him.

Possibly something that he read that I have penned on paper rang true with him. If I had to guess: I would say that the kindred spirit that resides within. I can’t deny that I do tend to write on the dark side and so in a sense we are of a kindred spirit.

Where do I go when I crave something sinister, something dangerous and forbidden?

Many times: though I know that it is here among the profiles, I don’t know exactly where; so I delve within and create that which I crave.

My fingers begin to touch the keyboard and the forbidden comes to life; within the realm of my imagination.

I create that sinister and forbidden character that lurks within the recesses of a place that I dare to go alone; for that place is within me.

“Oh shoot,” I muttered: as I heard the doorbell ring, rising to get it. I hated being interrupted when I was writing.

“What?” I barked out as I opened the door.


An excerpt from: ‘The Executioner.’

©2014 Suzanne Steele


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