Creepy Stalker

Just an interesting short story.

I like to keep my blinds open, all day, until I go to bed. I like to imagine that some creep is watching my every move and the way I brush my hair every morning before I go to class, and the way I read a chapter from a book from my bedside table to sleep. That’s how desperate I am for some attention. I am so lonely, and I know that there is no God watching over me, so I resort to believing that some horny creep is jerking off to me right now.

I know how unbelievably messed up I sound right now. Trust me, I do. It’s not like I have a fetish for creeps, I’m actually quite the opposite. My boyfriend suggests new and weird stuff to try, all the time, but I always refuse, and I am so comfortable with just regular sex. That is the type of person I am. I’m not sure why I enjoy the fantasy of there being someone, out there, stalking me, because it’s very unusual.

Maybe it’s because I feel neglected. Nobody ever has time for me, and I don’t blame them. It’s my fault for moving to a different corner of the world. It’s my fault for falling in love with someone who’s busy all the time. There’s one thing, however, that is not my fault. The black hole within.

There was once a bountiful meadow there. One where peonies and tulips grew together, and lovers made love to each other under a bright, spring sky. Till one day a darkness invaded my essence. The day I was left to stand alone in the rain, without any means of salvation. I was left to shiver in the cold, and my screams weren’t heard, so I gave up on speaking all together. That’s when the darkness spread to the very edges of the meadow and withered it into smithereens. All that’s left is a hollow gap in my soul and since then, I’ve used my wild imagination to conjure up illusions that there is something there. I try to paint images to myself that there is no empty void but something more; deep down I know that that’s all there is no matter how many illusions I draw for myself.

Tonight, I engage myself in that illusion by attempting to confirm its reality. I stare out the window, pretending to watch the snow, when really, I’m looking for my imaginary stalker. He’s not there. I don’t know why that makes me sad. You’d think that I’d be happy that I’m safe, but all I could think about is how not even a criminal is interested in me. Nobody is. It’s pathetic how I’m drowning in my own self-pity but that’s all I’ve ever been. Pathetic.