Page 3 of Psychotic Faith
Her dishes from dinner sit in the drying rack: one plate, one fork, one glass. She made pasta again, angel hair with butter and parmesan. Simple. Solitary. I lift the glass to my lips, tasting where her mouth touched. The intimacy of it makes my cock harden. She deserves someone cooking for her, real meals. I imagine feeding her by hand, controlling every bite, watching her throat work as she swallows what I give her. The thought makes me smile, though I’ve been told ‘smile’ doesn’t properly describe that particular expression on my face.
I document everything: the expired milk she hasn't thrown out, the vitamins she forgot to take this morning, the grocery list on her refrigerator where she's written "bread, eggs, hope" in her neat script. That last word makes me pause. Hope. As if it's something you can buy, something you can run out of. I'll be her hope. Or her damnation. Either way, she'll never run out of me.
Twenty-three nights of this. Twenty-three nights of learning her completely while remaining a ghost in her life. Twenty-three nights of fucking my fist to the memory of her breathing, coming with her name on my lips like a prayer to a God I don't believe in.
The journal under her mattress barely counts as hidden. Anyone could find it, a thought that makes my jaw clench and my hand drift to the scalpel in my pocket, the one still carrying traces of the night's work. I've read it before, photographed every page. Innocent entries about difficult library patrons, lesson plans for Sunday school, prayers for her father's safety. Nothing revealing, nothing real.
But tonight, something new calls to me. The air vent near her bookshelf has a screw slightly out of place. Microscopic difference, but my chemical training makes me notice traceevidence—the particular pattern of dust disturbance that means recent movement. I always notice when it comes to her.
The vent cover lifts away to reveal a second journal, this one leather-bound and worn. My pulse quickens as I open it, finding pages of different handwriting. Urgent. Darker. This is the real Faith, the one hiding beneath prayer and politeness.
"Patience," she's written over and over on one page, the word pressed so hard it's carved through to the next sheet. "Twelve years and three months."
Dates. Lists. The initials "T.N." appear frequently, circled and underlined. I photograph each page rapidly, mind processing details. There are sketches in the margins—building layouts, faces I don't recognize.
"The law must work this time," one entry reads. "Evidence. Proof. Legal channels only."
"He doesn't know who I am. Good. Let him forget."
Who is 'he'? T.N? Someone else? The ambiguity frustrates me even as it fascinates. My Faith has enemies she's been watching, studying. The thought of anyone making her feel this kind of sustained rage makes me want to find every name in this journal and remove them from existence.
I return the journal exactly as found, mind racing through possibilities. Whatever she's planning, whatever has her counting days and memorizing layouts, she shouldn't have to handle it alone. That's what I'm for. To remove obstacles. To clear her path. To ensure she never has to dirty her hands with necessary violence.
Instead, I move to her bedroom.
She sleeps on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other curled against her chest. I kneel beside her bed, bringing myself level with her sleeping face. Close enough to see the pulse in her throat, that vulnerable spot where life beats closest to the surface.
Her breathing is deep, even. Sixteen breaths per minute in deep sleep, twenty-two when she dreams. Right now she's at sixteen, but that will change soon. It always does between two and three a.m. when the nightmares come.
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and I know she's entering REM sleep. Soon the terror will grip her. They always do at this hour, making her twitch and mumble words I can never quite catch. Sometimes she cries. Those nights are the hardest, when I have to grip the floor to keep from gathering her against me, from becoming the comfort she doesn't know she needs. Or from being the monster that gives her real nightmares, the kind where she wakes up owned.
Two forty-one a.m. Right on schedule, her hand twitches. Her breathing shifts, speeds up. Twenty breaths, twenty-one, twenty-two. The nightmare has her.
She mumbles something that sounds like "Luke." My breath catches, cock twitching at hearing anything close to my name from those lips. Her hand reaches for something that isn't there. A weapon, perhaps. My girl knows to fight even in sleep.
"Shh," I whisper, so quiet even I barely hear it. "I've already killed the monsters, little faith. The one who followed you to your car is feeding fish in the Chicago River. They're gone. You're safe."
She settles slightly, as if some part of her sleeping mind hears, believes, accepts the devil's protection. I lean closer, close enough to smell the jasmine in her hair, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. My hand hovers over her hair, millimeters from contact.
One touch. That's all I want. To smooth the worried crease from her forehead, to chase away whatever demons plague her sleep. To wrap my hand around that delicate throat and feel her pulse against my palm, to own her breath for just a moment.
But I don't. Can't. Not yet. Not until she knows I exist, until she chooses to let me this close. Or until I decide choice is a luxury neither of us can afford.
The nightmare passes. Her breathing evens out to sixteen again, and she shifts, burrowing deeper into her pillow. Safe. Protected.
The need to wake her, to watch recognition dawn in those hazel eyes as she realizes she's not alone, nearly overwhelms my control. I want to see her fear transform into understanding, that the demon in her room is the only thing standing between her and worse ones. That sometimes the devil you know is salvation.
At her kitchen table, I pull out the Polaroid camera from my jacket. The overhead light is off. I work by streetlight filtering through her window, the same light that's illuminated my work on so many bodies. The red indicator light glows softly as the camera warms up, ready to capture what I need.
This one will be different from the surveillance photos filling my apartment. This one is First Contact. The beginning of her knowing that someone watches, someone cares, someone ensures her safety even when she sleeps. The first thread in the web I'm weaving around her.
I pull the photo from my jacket pocket—her at her mother's grave this afternoon, arranging yellow roses with such gentle precision. I flip it over and read the single word on the white backing: "Protected."
Simple. Clear. A declaration and a promise combined. When she finds it tomorrow, she'll wonder. She'll probably think it's from one of her Sunday school students, something innocent and sweet. Let her think that for now. Let her believe the world still holds such simple kindness instead of the complex possession I offer.
The knife under her pillow draws my attention next. Good girl, sleeping armed. But the blade is pathetically dull, wouldn't cut through paper, much less defend against a real threat. I pull out my sharpening stone, working the blade until it could split hair. The rhythm is familiar. I've sharpened so many blades, though usually they're wet with blood rather than dusty from disuse.
I test the edge against my thumb, watching blood bead immediately. Perfect. She deserves weapons that work, edges that cut deep, protection that has teeth. I suck my thumb clean, tasting my own blood in her space, marking territory in ways she'll never know.
