Escaping Mr. Grayson [UN-EDITED]

Chapter Twenty-Three.

                                                     "...And if I cut myself, it was you I bled"

                                                                      -Jeanette Winterson

                                                                                    #

Mr. Grayson's p.o.v

          Where are you my sweet Nailea?

        You're hiding from me. And doing a decent job at it, might I add. It's been—what? —an eternity, since I last saw you? Since you were last well within my grasp, since I filled both my lungs with your sweet, subtle scent. I scared you, didn't I? It shook you to the core to see me sitting besides your mother, knowing that I've nested inside her brain just as I did inside the blood pulsing through your veins, didn't it?  You underestimate my capabilities Nailea. You really do, and though it makes me angry, it's a hell of a thrill.

And when it comes to thrill, oh my dear sweet Nailea, I can be...insatiable.

          I tug at my bottom lip as I stand across the street from your new home and wait. I breath and watch and wait for you to show up. But you don't. Your irrelevant friends show up at different intervals, bringing in boxes and cleaning around the house. They don't even bother to close the blinds or lock the doors. I swear at some point I watched your roommate have a threesome. That skank.

          Your friends are irresponsible and dumb. They're a brain-dead bunch of attention seeking whores. Remind me again why you choose to be acquainted with them? Remind me why you continue on your consistent quest of seeking their approval. You're far better off Nailea. You really, truly are.

          Your friends leave at seven in a beaten down old Uber. They looked almost wasted already in their sketchy—no—skimpy outfits. Especially the skank. Oh, and the icing on the agony-filled cake? They didnt even bother to lock the doors. Its like theyre inviting me in, I mean, What morons. You'd have locked the door and checked it thrice Nailea. I know you wouldve.

          I slip inside the house easily, making sure to close the door. I pad through the house, not sure what exactly I'm looking for but I know that Ill know when I find it. I know this house well. Your mother gave me a thorough tour the month we met.

          Let's talk about your mother for a second Nailea. I see why you are the way you are. Your mother is smothering, controlling, suffocating. She thinks far too highly of her intellect and quite frankly, it's agonizing to be around here for more than a few minutes at a time. Your mother is agonizing. Much like mine.

See? I get it. We have so much in common.

           It's funny, I thought about killing your mother many, many times. She's one of those people that I wouldn't immediately feel strangely about murdering. It would be relieving actually. But I know that you'd never forgive me. Because even though she drives you crazy, deep down, she's your mother...and you care for her.

Basic emotions confuse me.

          I'm in your bedroom now. I sit at the edge of your bed and take in the surroundings. Your book shelf is littered with classic literature from Paula Fox to Bret Easton Ellis. Your countless academic trophies sit perfectly on a wooden stand, shining in all their glory. I even notice the measly 5th place participation trophy hid-den behind the rest of your awards.

          My fingers tug at the fabric of your panties that I find when I snoop through your moving boxes. I bring them to my nose and, oh, that scent...the scent that drives me mad. I shove a pair in my pocket, call it a souvenir.