They say he hides on the other side of the wall. But it's not like you could take a sledgehammer and try to get to him. All you get is lathe, drywall scraps, and a new door to the bedroom. He waits on the other side, you see.
He likes waiting. Really, it's his favorite part. The anticipation, thinking about what he's going to do to you. The eager hunch of his shoulders, waiting. Almost there. The frustration, even – it increases his rage tenfold, knowing he's so close to you, but not yet. Not yet.
So he waits, on the other side. He grinds his teeth, he clenches his fists, and he stares, under a furrowed brow. Leaning slightly forward. Staring at you. Watching you. Waiting. A solitary vein, arcing from temple to brow, pulses with a steady, unstoppable beat. Staring at you, through the wall. To the other side. Where you are.
You can feel him staring, when conversation drops off, or in the uncomfortably long pauses between songs on your MP3 player, as if the device itself is hesitating. You can feel his stare at night, abruptly waking you from unconsciousness. His stare is like a weight, like a searing heat, like an inevitability. You don't want to, but you can hear his breathing, shallow and hoarse. Or is that your own? Is that sound, wheezing, panicked, actually coming from your own lungs? He knows. He watches. He waits.
He's always there, on the other side. When you're at work. At the corner bar. At the peep shows you go to, trying to distract yourself from the weight of his stare. It doesn't work. The girls now openly laugh at you. Do they know? Can they feel him, waiting? Watching? His body, tense with anger, on the verge of coming in, almost, any day now...
When he does come through, when he arrives, there's no point in running. Because he will be coming over, not anywhere you are, but everywhere you are. He will be the entirety of your vision, his stare will become your world. And then, he will reach out. He will grab you. And he will show you. He will show you things.
And then, finally, he will laugh. It will be the last sound you ever hear, that terrible, horrible laugh.
Shit yeah.
:lulz:
I do a lot of waiting. And one day, I'll stop waiting.
PD: high octane nightmare fuel since 1898