The rain was not going to deter him. There was no getting around it. This had to be done. And it had to be done tonight. He wiped the salty, stinging sweat that threatened to burn his eyes. The sound of the hunting knife scraping against the sharpening stone calmed his frayed nerves.
The sickening sting of bile rose to his throat when he remembered how she threw herself at that man. He’d witnessed the betrayal from the hidden deer stand in a tree near her house. She didn’t know he studied every move she made. He knew she woke up at 6:30, left for work at 7:15, went to bed at 10:30. She ate her lunch alone in the hospital cafeteria. And her favorite ice cream was mint chocolate chip.
He closed his eyes and strained to recall every detail of the last moment they shared. He had delivered a box of fresh syringes to her office in the Emergency Room. Her Caribbean green eyes beckoned him from under long, dark lashes. Mountains of red curls teased him playfully. Flawless rose lips, erotically moistened, summoned his libido. She flirted, smiled, and turned her head ever so slightly to signal her desire for him. His love for her burned a beastly fever in the center of his chest. She belonged to him.
How could she taunt and manipulate him only to give herself to that arrogant, two-timing surgeon? But that’s never going to happen again, he thought. If I can’t have her, no one will.
He put down the knife and lifted the crinkled, yellow paper closer to the lamp. A poem; spilled from the depths of his passion, to a woman who had betrayed, mocked, and rejected him. He read it aloud:
Running, hiding, dodging, lying
The pain of seeing you
Laughing, kissing, drinking sighing
The pain of love untrue
Stabbing, punching, kicking, dying
The pain of killing you
From the deer stand; he watched until the house went dark. He knew she’d be asleep dreaming of butterflies, kittens, and innocence.
His fist, conveniently covered with a hand towel, crashed through the glass of the French doors. And he crept to the inner sanctum of her bedroom.
Animated, aroused, and angry, he pushed the pillow atop her face with as much force as his brut frame allowed.
She didn’t move. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t gasp or fight back. He pushed harder. Nothing. Silence.
Slowly, he eased the avalanche of pressure on her face. He blinked twice to adjust his vision to the darkness. Unsuccessful, he clicked on the lamp adding a soft glow to the room and gazed at the object of his obsessive love.
Her once beautiful eyes glared out at him like black holes in a face bleached of all its color. An odd purplish lipstick smeared carelessly across her previously perfect lips. Something’s terribly wrong, he thought.
His eyes raced around the room like a stock care headed for an imminent crash. He gathered his murderous toolkit of torture and bolted for the door, only to be intercepted by his beautiful, betraying victim holding a Glock 19.
She clenched the gun steady and held him captive with the intensity of her glare.
In an angry, thick voice, she asked, “Did you think I was stupid? Did you really think I wouldn’t discover your pitiful deer stand and figure out what you’re up to?”
His throat constricted like a snake around his neck and his eyes grew wider as he realized; she’d stalked the stalker.
“I followed you home from your pathetic look-out, watched your routine, saw you with that hunting knife, and called the police. But they can’t respond until after crime has been committed. I’ve no choice but to oblige them.”
A flash, a bang and the scratch of a pen on a police report that said, “no charges filed/self-defense” closed the final chapter on his perverted pursuit of love.