When I Look At You

The Art of Stalking

You sigh in contentment as you look out over the meadow you are standing in. The grass is a bright green, and the blades caress your arms. Tiny colorful flowers speckle the field. Red, white, blue, and purple intermingled in the green. The sun casts a yellow haze in the distance and heats your skin. You smile up at the sky. It was bright and blue with not a single cloud. A gentle breeze blows your hair from the nape of your neck. Inhaling deeply you smell dirt and the sweet fragrance of flowers, and for some reason, you couldn't understand it reminds you of home.

You stand there lost in thought for well over an hour just enjoying the sun. The sharp sound of screaming pierces your ears forcing you out of your head. You look over at the group of teens running past you; they don't notice you, and you are grateful for this. They move through the meadow in reckless abandon laughing and yelling. They ruin the feel of the field so you turn quietly and amble back to the path that will lead you home. And I follow.

You don't know I am here; you never do, but I am always watching. I strive to keep you safe from the truth of a cruel world. Sometimes I want you to notice me. Sometimes I think we could be the best of friends or perhaps even lovers, but I know better. You don't need these things, no you need me to protect you from the terrible people who try to intrude on your world. You are perfection and you can't be tarnished by the scum of this world.

On your way home you stopped by the convenience store and picked up a bottle of water and a salad with grilled chicken and ranch dressing. The same thing you eat almost every evening. While you paid for your items, the cashier tried to make a pass at you. He leans in close and wispers in your ear. His sharp pointed nose nearly touching your hair. His smile yellow and unpleasant. You smile sweetly but decline firmly. Don't worry I will punish him for his transgressions.

Once you get home, you fumble around in your oversized powder blue purse for your keys. It takes you exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds to find your keys and unlock your door. This is why you need me; you make a victim of yourself. The last thing I see of you as you close the door is a wisp of hair. As I start down the street back towards my house, I pull out my phone and turn on the cameras I set up in your house. You head up the stairs to the right of the door and eat your dinner on your bed while reading a sappy highland romance novel.

The next four hours pass without much change. You are a creature of habit after all. You read for an hour. Then you do some studying and doing homework. You shower and change into a soft cotton sleeping outfit.

While I watch, I spend time researching the cashier. Cameron Micheal Peirse, age 19, still lives with his mother. His father died when he was six years old. He dropped out of high school and started working at Seven Eleven at age seventeen. He broke up with a horse-faced girl named Nicky two months ago. Cameron posts way to many pictures of himself smoking weed on social media.

I went to sleep only after making sure you were sleeping soundly. The soft light of your lava lamp cast a purple glow on your sweet face. Tomorrow is Sunday so we will be getting up at nine to prepare for church, but I have other things to do in the morning.