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2
Vincent
Walking into the kitchen, I allow myself a glance at my obsession. I catch her eyeing me curiously; something about the look in her eyes is strong but wary. The years with her selfish mother have not broken her spirit, but her soul is battered. She is innocent but wise, and she occupies my every thought.
I wish I could make her understand how special, how strong and brave she is. I wish I could do so much for her, have her by my side and give her anything she could ever want or need, but I can’t. I can’t have her.
I had to suppress a scoff when I enter the house to Margaret’s boasting about her Christmas cookies as I hung my leather jacket on a coat rack. Instead of seeking out the girl I am really here for, I concentrated on holding back from calling Margaret out on her lies—that woman doesn’t know how to bake a frozen pizza, let alone make cookies from scratch—and followed her into the kitchen.
Even if I hadn’t already seen Faith making those cookies, I would’ve known Margaret is a liar. No one with hair that perfectly coiffed “just finished” making Christmas cookies. Margaret’s desperation is nearly palpable, and perhaps in a past life, I would’ve humored her. Taken her to bed, then unceremoniously disappeared.
Ghosted, as my boss would say. But not anymore. I see through her lies, and it takes every ounce of control in my body to not scowl at her advances. But I play nice because this is my one chance.
The truth of the matter is that I’m not here for her. I’m here for Faith. Ever since I moved into the house next door, I’ve been watching her. It began with curiosity and ended in knowing every part of her life. I’m obsessed with knowing every little detail about her.
She attends the community college just down the road. She leaves for class at nine every morning and returns at five. Her favorite color is blue; she likes to read romance books and eat cookie dough ice cream. She listens to 70s rock albums in her car, on CD because she drives a fifteen-year-old sedan.
Meanwhile, her mother, Margaret, drives a Lexus and spends all her money on booze and clothes. She has enough money to send Faith to a nice college but chooses to waste her money on material, selfish things. It disgusts me. I want nothing more than to whisk Faith away from this small life and give her everything she deserves.
The more I learn about Faith, the more I know I have to protect her. Watch her, take care of her in any way I can. She is so small and fragile, she needs someone to look out for her, and her mother is doing a shit job.
Tonight is my only chance to see her up close. Then I’ll go back to watching from afar. Back to yearning for the one woman, I can never have.
I live a life that she can never be a part of. Hitmen don’t get to fall in love—especially not ones who work for the mafia. If I let her into my life, she would become collateral, a target, a weakness my enemies would use against me. If I drag her into my darkness, soil her lightness somehow, I would never forgive myself.
Besides, she would probably never go for me anyway. I am much older than her. I’m weathered, body and soul. She is young, full of light, and utterly innocent. We’re the complete opposite, and there is no way she could ever see me for anything other than her neighbor.
I snap back to the moment, my eyes locking on Faith, standing there with a swipe of flour on her cheek. Her eyes are wide as if we’ve caught her in an indecent act.
Oh, if only…
“I just had to ask Faith to get the cookies out of the oven for me. She’s such a great helper, aren’t you, Faith?”
Margaret’s tone is dripping with sugar. To me, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She never uses this tone for her daughter, only condescending whispers and harsh snarls.
I know because I haven’t only watched them from my window. One day, while Faith and Margaret were out, I snuck into their house to plant two cameras in Faith’s room. One points at her bed. One overlooks the rest of her room. Every night since then, I’ve watched her.
Yes, I’m a fucking stalker. Yes, it’s wrong and perverted. It’s completely immoral and devious, but I don’t care. I’m going to hell anyway, might as well make it count.
Most of the time, she just reads, does homework, or sleeps. I watch the live feed obsessively, poring over her every movement. But I also watch when she touches herself. Those are my favorite parts.
She doesn’t have any toys, no vibrators or massagers. She even masturbates innocently, with two fingers furiously rubbing at her swollen clit until she’s gasping for air. It’s almost primal. I shouldn’t watch, but nothing else satisfies me. I must see her—all of her. She is my one and only obsession.
I set the cameras to record every time I leave the house, so I can come home and catch up with everything Faith has done that day. She spends most of her time at home in her room, but the windows in my home allow me to see into their living room and kitchen as well. That’s how I’d seen Faith making these cookies before I came over.
I watch everything she does. Everything.
It’s wrong. I know it is. But I’m addicted. She’s a drug I cannot kick. I need her in every way, even though I know I cannot truly have her.
That’s what makes it so surreal to be standing in the same room as her. To smell the cookies, she’d made just for me. To know what she looks like naked, what she sounds like when she comes on her hand, but to have to introduce myself as if are strangers. Which, to her, we are. She has no idea how much I know about her. How much I want to unravel her, to strip her bare and taste her sweetness, to feel her beneath my body, my cock sliding into her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm again and again.
“Hello, Faith,” I greet, my voice low as I fight to keep my heartbeat even.
Oh, sure, I could assassinate enemies of the mob without a second thought, but saying hello to her makes me nervous? Of course, it fucking does. I don’t want her to know about the darkness that lives inside of me. The joy I get from killing people, the warmth of their blood on my hands, listening to their screams, and pleas.
Faith turns to face me, and I watch a blush creep across her cheeks. So fucking beautiful. I want to kiss her, to spread her out right here on the counter, and claim her as mine.
“Hi, Vincent. Merry Christmas,” she replies shyly, her blue eyes flicking away from me almost nervously. It takes everything in me not to step closer.
