Plaything

I see you.

You do not see me.

I hear you.

You do not listen.

Your flesh. How it glistens in the moonlight. White, white marble, like it was carved from the moon itself.

How I wish to rip that flesh, bring forth that crimson sustenance, hear you scream, watch you die.

I know you know of me. You know I exist.

And I want your life even more for it.

When you walk past dark passage ways; the way your eyes flick towards me, hidden in those shadows. I know you feel my eyes upon you.

My burning gaze...

I do hope you know...

Your life is meaningless.

You are just a plaything.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

A plaything.

My guilty pleasure.

Your life is just a Russian Roulette.

Will I spill your blood tonight?

Will I spill it ever?

I keep both of us guessing. Waiting for the moment.

If that moment ever comes...

It gives me such pleasure. So unique, I fear only the few and select people like me encounter it. And I pity those who are sane. Such things they miss out on.

You wonder...

Why do you do this to me?

What have I done to deserve this?

It's simple.

You were there.

You are a pretty little thing. It makes me what to take more than your life.

My guilty pleasure.

The way you move your head when you're nervous. How your pupils dilate when you're scared.

Your beautiful, silver eyes.

Perhaps I'll keep them, when and if I kill you.

Long after they've gone distant and blind...

Thus is the life of one such as I. But I am different.

I know what I'm doing is frowned upon.

And that excites me.

Will I be taken away?

Put in straight jacket in a pillowed room?

It excites me.

And here I am gain, waiting. Waiting for you to walk by, for you to look at me in the shadows.

I think I will show myself today.

You walk by.

And I do not move.

My plaything.

My guilty pleasure.

Your life is nothing but a Russian Roulette.

And tonight, you've fired a blank.