Title: Sinister Grin

Note: This is Part I of a short series. I'm tired of fairy-tale love stories.

Sometimes, I wish I could be like every other girl in the world. I want to swoon over sexy actors on the movie screen, or squeal over cute boys at school.

I really just want to be normal. I want to want what every girl wants, a knight in shining armor on a white horse to ride up and carry me away into my happily-ever-after. I really do want to want that. But that's not exactly what I want. But then again, I'm not exactly normal…so why should my heart or thoughts be different?

For example, every time I watch a movie of a romantic nature, I notice something—the bad guys always end up alone. They can start out with the girl, but they always lose her. No matter how hot they are, they always finish the movie without anyone.

I guess normal girls like the good guys; the heroes, you know, the guy who saves them in the end. I always find myself falling for the bad guy.

In fact, I'm madly in love with my neighbor.

My thoughts revolve around the man constantly, and he never seems to leave my mind. He's a bad guy. Not a bad ass, but he just seems…wicked. Whether it is for good or bad has yet to be seen.

Girls are always going into his house, but I rarely see them leave. I've come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, in love with a serial killer.

The thought does not scare me away.

I told you, I'm not normal. Being in love with a possible killer would send most girls running for the hills, screaming their pretty little heads off and flailing their arms about comically. Not me.

Maybe it's a thrill thing, but I doubt it. He just…strikes me. It's like he's looking for something in all those girls, but he can't find it. If something is incompatible, you get rid of it.

I've only talked to him once, about a year ago or so, by complete accident. I wasn't supposed to answer the door, (because my parents were on a trip and they figured that a 17 year old girl couldn't be safe unless she never answered the door) but I did. By some stroke of fate, he'd gotten a bill of ours and was returning it.

Most people just leave it in the mailbox. Let the post office people pick it up the next day. He didn't; he actually brought it over. Well, we got to talking until his girlfriend showed up. She completely stormed up my front walk and started telling me off before he could coax her to leave.

Maybe it was his voice. His voice is absolutely gorgeous. I don't really know any adjectives to describe it, but I can try. Hmm… it was kind of like a deep, throaty purr mixed with a rumble. I didn't so much hear it as feel it wrapping around my bones. His voice is very moving.

But like I said, I dunno. It could be anything really.

If I were more of a shallow person, I would say it could be because of how—breath-takingly beautiful—the man is. Don't get me wrong, he is really cute but he's like as old as my father. That, obviously, doesn't stop me from watching him.

He has the kind of body like a football player: broad shoulders, tapering chest, slender hips. And his hands are perfect; they're big but with long fingers, like he should play an instrument. But I suppose the body could be considered an instrument. For a man his age, he does get quite a bit of action.

Well, whatever the reason, I'm kinda glad for it. Things haven't really been going my way this year. I just started college and I rarely get to see my friends. The only person I really get to see is my shrink. I have to see him though; if I don't, I spiral. Spiraling isn't fun. He takes my mind off things.

I could love him because he seems like he would be a protector, when he wasn't killing girls of course. I need a protector, and my parents just aren't enough. Well, not anymore. I need someone to hold me when I shake, rather than just place pills in my hand. When I was little, like six or seven, I was kidnapped in Wal-mart's parking lot.

The guy wasn't too smart, because he let me go after raping me. But I promised not to tell, and he was young so I walked away.

Later, when I started crying uncontrollably, my mother took me to the doctor. Needless to say, my parents learned about my "secret", as he put it. They never really looked at me the same. My mom kinda just clutched at me and sobbed, my dad was catatonic.

Anyway, now I have to take like four different pills to keep me from offing myself, or to keep the memories kinda faded. It's funny how most kids can't remember what happened when they were seven; I remember it all.

I'm really not normal.

Then again, we've established that haven't we. HELLO! I'm IN LOVE with a SERIAL KILLER. I think that counts as abnormal.

There's something in his movement; he has kind of a relaxed, yet powerful walk. I can almost see his muscles roll under his shirt, and it makes me think of the way big cats move. That liquid roll of a walk, like he doesn't have bones just cartilage, joints and muscle. And of course organs and skin…but people never count those. I guess it's just a given that they are counted in.

He's moving outside, I can see him out my window from my desk where I'm typing this. He has such a pretty car. It's an older Mustang (a 1967 Shelby Cobra GT 500 to be exact), grey with dark grey racing stripes. It fits him. He's waxing it…so he must have a date. I feel a little jealous, and at the same time don't really care—he's going to kill her anyway.

…oh God. I think he caught me looking.

I like his smile. It's almost sinister, in a sexy way. It seems to promise leather and lace, whips and chains.

Maybe I've got what he's looking for.

Either way, he's calling me over. Beckoning me with a crooked finger and that soft smile. I don't think I can keep from going.

I need someone to mend the broken glass of my soul.

I think I need him.