No more: A Sexual Offenderman Story

I can’t do this anymore. Over and over again, he comes, normally in the dead of night, stalking in like a silent predator. He calls to me tenderly, sweetly, lovingly. How could I resist the temptation? It hurts just to turn away. It feels like I’m burning from the pain as I try over and over again to reject him, to get away from him, to run far, far away, but I can’t. I can’t run from him.

That thing. That horrible monstrosity. What is he? WHAT IS HE?

Tall. I know that he is just so incredibly tall. He seemed to stretch to nine feet, towering over me with his thin lithe frame that was wrapped in skin so starkly white that it seemed nearly translucent. I could see the black veins that riddled his body through the skin, an ichor so dark that it contrasted his pale flesh so well. Then there were his teeth. Teeth so immaculately white it sparkled like diamonds in the cold darkness. They were just a row of sharp jagged razors that could cut through steal I’m sure, but what disgusted me even more was that thick wet black tongue that hid just behind them.

He scared me. He fills me with such unrelenting fear that the very thought of him sends my heart into a beating fury, going faster and faster as the anxiety takes over. It nearly breaks through its fleshy prison when I can sense him drawing near. I become more and more panicked as I listen to the quiet footsteps that approach my bedroom from the hall. Every night I stare horrified at the rose that I so foolishly accepted from him, the rose that he materialized right from the stark white skin that enveloped him. It was beautiful that rose, so fragrant and alluring. It beckoned me forth just as much as his voice did.

His voice, it was a siren’s call, a deep rumbling growl that echoed through his vocal chords, showering me with pleasant feelings of comfort and delight. The chills washing over me like a wave of ecstasy so potent it shot me straight to the clouds, making my knees weak and my body shake and shiver just from the very sound. He was intoxicating, and all I feel is like an addict trying desperately to get off the drugs she was on. But I can’t… he won’t let me. He keeps me here in this dark room surrounded by curtains and adorned with pillows so soft that my entire body melted into them as if they were clouds.

There must be something in the air as well. There is always the fragrance of roses that permeated every corner of the room I was in, and I’m certain it was from the flower. Just the one rose that laid next to me like a calling card. That thing was drugging me, not allowing me a sane thought to go through my head. I know it. I just know it! I lay there, naked and alone, waiting for him every night to come back, and all I want to do is go home. I try to lift my head, my arms, my legs, but it feels as if there are two ton weights holding them down, keeping me locked away and trapped within his reach forever. Why won’t he let me go home?

I can’t do this anymore. Having every waking moment being in his thick white arms, having his spindly fingers crawl all over my body, his wet black tongue raking over whatever little crevice it could find. No matter how loud or often I wept in his tortured grasp there was never a moment of reprieve. He continued to whisper how I belonged to him, and only him. How I was his beautiful possession. How he treasured my every breath, but I never wanted him back. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to stay. I try to tell him over and over again that all I want is to get away from him, that I don’t love him, that I’m disgusted by him, but my voice is lost within my throat as I choke upon the fragrance of the rose that lies next to me. Always lying next to me, it never moves, never wilts, and never leaves my side.

He’s coming back again… I can feel it… There’s always a sudden tightening in my chest as tears start to well up in my eyes, wishing so desperately that I could go home. I looked upon the sweet red rose. I managed to glare at it, loathing it, resenting its very existence. It made me angry to look upon that rose, it filled me with just unrelenting hatred that all I wanted to do was crush it, rip it apart, shred it to pieces, chew it up and spit it out. I want that rose to die. I want it to suffer like I’ve had to suffer.

He was steadily approaching the door, he tended to wait for as long as he could before entering, I guess to savor the fear that I know he can taste. I stared at the rose, the anger filling my entire body. I felt my fingers start to shake… then move, and carefully take the rose into my palm, closing around the thorns with my fist. I smiled wickedly, my breathing becoming heavier and heavier at the thought of being able to move. It kick started the adrenaline as I let out a small triumphant laugh to myself, relishing the moment that I would be able to kill at least one of the things that tormented me so.

I heard his footsteps stop at the door; his hand was now on the knob. With as much strength and will as I could muster, I brought the rose to my person; wrapping my other hand around it the glee that overtook me was incredible. I gripped the petals with my fingers, waiting for him to open the door, I wanted to see the look in those sickly pink eyes the horror as I destroy his poisonous gift. The door creaked open, and I saw him saunter silkily though, much like a snake. His head turned to me, his immaculate smile was wide and hungry.

I smiled back, then ripped the rose apart.

The scream of agony that erupted from his throat was painful and scarring. He leapt upon me, thick white tendrils appearing from his back, lashing at me uncontrollably, running right through me, leaving large gashes and holes, allowing the blood to pour and pour and pour. He was in pain, he was in anguish, he was burning and suffering and I could do nothing to stop him from ripping me apart just as I did to his precious little rose.

And as I slipped, quickly, into a quiet of endless welcoming abyss that I so craved, all I could whisper to him was, "No more."