The Watcher.

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He’s watching.

Purring with desire, there’s that burning angst and familiar itch; as his hands tremble with painful anticipation.

Watching her.
She’s riding her bike and laughing with so much soul. Her hair flies like the wind behind her; a rippling blonde cape. She’s all toothy smiles and innocent whims.

He waits. He burns.
A twitch of a curtain, there she goes again. It’s finally his time, as she skips unknowingly into the heart of the bastards den. Soft footsteps behind her, slow and calculating. The tremble of his hands cannot take the excitement of what’s to come.

She’s just a child. Too pure to understand the price of perfect strangers and of real freedom.

He’s done waiting, as he watches her a final time.

He’s done waiting, as he goes in for his kill.

Unflinching gaze as the life inside her eyes fades and disappears. Undoing her piece by piece. Bone by lovely bone.

The watchers hands tremble no longer. His itch is pacified;

For now.

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