AGALMATOPHILIA

_-:48:-_

The little cardboard package sat nonthreatening upon his porch, the dull, amber glow of dusk approaching flooded its way intrusively through parted curtains, washing the small yet neatly decorated living room in a soft glow, several picture frames and trinkets of luck charms and protection line a tiny rock and cobble fire place.

The cabinet within the corner of the room contains several pictures, many of friends and family long passed, a wooden doll, dressed and shaped to resemble the owner, with T.R.J. as the initials engraved to the bottom left foot. The doll sat upon a small red cushion, but its face had been obscured by a silken cloth, the owner clearly had some sort of distaste towards the item.

Upon the lounge underneath a floor to ceiling window, that faced the safe and warm ambiance of the sun and street, a man was perched anxiously, hands gripping the top of the couch, knuckles white and eyes wide as he observes the stranger waltzing up his pathway, lined by red carnations, yellow gerbera's, he steps on one and Tyler, the one pressed against his lounge, wants to rush outside to hit the man.

His confidence makes Tyler even more anxious, something about the way he walked, it was almost recognisable, but Tyler swore he hadn't seen the plain, brown haired man before, in fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen him as his mail man before.

Reaching inside a saddlebag, the stranger Tyler had now identified as the mail man, pulls out a small package, Tyler's blood immediately turning to ice upon the sight. He was well aware of what it would, or could be, so he waits until the mail man places the package upon the doorstep, leaving and once again stepping on one of the overhanging flowers, crushing it and Tyler's withering spirit.

He waits till the man is out of sight, even then continuing to gaze to the outside world without moving a muscle.

Two, frightened, albeit curious eyes, spied on the parcel from the safety behind a window, anxiously looking around to make sure there was no one in sight before he opened the door. These days, and with what he had been receiving on his door step recently, Tyler couldn't be cautious enough when it came to strange packages appearing at his front step.

Fear, yet inquisitiveness fuels his shaking body toward the door, exiting through the archway to park in the hallway, stopping just in front of the thick wooden front door painted bright yellow, hand outstretched for the handle, until, like a zap of electricity shot from the knob to his fingertips, Tyler reels his hand back, backing up from the door and rubbing upon the hand he so creatively imagined that he had injured.

For months, his therapy revolved around trauma, instead of sex, in fact, Tyler hadn't had so much of a twitch down there since he had gotten home, not that he hadn't tried.

The first couple of days didn't feel real, he had forgotten that he could eat whenever he wanted, permission unneeded, he didn't really sleep, and he sure as hell didn't feel the need to paint his chest or sheets with his or any one else's seed.

The first night whilst Tyler had tried to shower, he thought, as he washed his hair and opened his eyes, he had seen someone, with flaming, blazing red hair standing in the corner of his shower. When he reeled back to flee from the man, he had slipped, fallen and broken two fingers, the remainder of his night spent at an ER, the next day spent crying and babbling to his therapist about the experience, to which he was told that what happened to him would eventually fade into a blurred, scattered pieces of memories.

The following night, his night terrors grew into sleep walking, and when Tyler had finally awoken he had pissed himself whilst in bed, then proceeded to ruin his own house, smashing into walls and tearing pictures from their hooks, he had only awoken once he had tripped down the stairs an broken his arm.