ꪆৎ

anton always thought you were pretty. you were his neighbor and just moved last year with your family to pursue college and be a little closer to campus. you were bright, loud and sweet. a firecracker, people in the small town said, and honestly, he agreed. it didn’t take long for you to make a reputation, of course. it was easy because you just naturally drew people in, and anton was one of them.

what he had for you at first was something small, something he could control without a problem. it was hard not to fall for you, and he found himself looking forward to seeing you everyday after work. he noticed that everyday, like clockwork, you’d check the mail at 6 pm, a little after he got home from work, his key still clicking in the lock. he’d notice the way your fingers twirled your hair in conversation, notice the way you bit your lip every time you thought of something. he was captivated, and as the months passed, his interest for you grew stronger, unbearable, terrible.

he couldn’t bring himself to talk to you, at least engage in a conversation with more than 5 words before leaving in embarrassment or shame. but neither could you. he knew you liked him, you had to. he was put together, he was quiet, he was nice too, and plus, you made an attempt to see him every night whenever you went out to the mailbox. there was no way you didn’t feel the same way, and the strict title of only barely acquainted neighbors pissed him off. it was your fault. if you could speak to everyone else, why couldn’t you make an effort to have a reasonable relationship with him?

he couldn’t stop himself from the thoughts that plagued his mind. 8 months in and the sight of you made him cry, made him smile, made him sick. he didn’t mean to do what he did. everything became too much, all for too little and he blacked out. his feet moved before he could stop them, one step into the house, another farther, farther, farther, until he stood in front of the kitchen drawer. he was at war with himself, the conscious part of him telling him that this was too far, that things could change if he just wasn’t a fucking coward. but then he was behind you as you did your daily checking, knife gripped tight as he plunged it into your neck, over and over and over again until you were slumped and limp in his arms, his work clothes getting soaked in your blood, warm and sticky.

now you were in his shed a day later. he was fully aware or what he’d done now, he’d only hoped no one saw him. he was sorry, he felt guilty, and he tried his hardest to convince himself of that, but every time he thought of you sitting there, dusty shed, maybe a few flies and an unbearable stench emitting from your pretty, lifeless body, he felt nothing but pride and love. he loved you, so much more now that you were dead.

he stood above you, pupil’s dilated and circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep. his fluffy hair was messy from him pulling at it all night, tugging in stress and fear. he was scared, to be honest. he was scared of being caught, he was scared of losing you again. so his shaky hands move to your bloody white shirt, tugging it over your head and through your arms gently, as if you’d break if he was too rough. your pants follow after, tugged slightly down your legs. your were so stiff, and he had to plug his nose from the smell. he gags, placing his shirt over his nose before unbuttoning his pants.

he spits on your cunt, rubbing it across your folds before sliding in with a hiss. you were tight, likely a virgin before he took your life. sad, really, you died a virgin. but it was okay, because he would still take you for himself, even while you were dead. he did take you for himself. you were no longer warm anymore, his large hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing. he could just imagine the warmth, he could imagine the heartbeat, he could imagine that you were alive, and with him. in love with him.