I can see you.
Dearest trespasser, you must know;
there is no hiding in these eleven hundred and fifty square feet of
familiarity.
Even if you could hide, I would find you.
There is nowhere to run. And now, you’re right where I want you. What you think
is stable I say is stagnant. What you think is safe I say is vulnerable. I want
you, and I will have you.
I’ve slaughtered your previous generations
with no…what was that word again? Oh yes…remorse.
Your kind is all the same: you take,
and take, and hide, and hide, and your greatest frailty is that you are
predictable. Your instincts are public record. You make it all too easy for
someone to simply take your life from you: Someone like me.
You must find me
despicable…deplorable. Some may even say “creepy.” I understand why you may
think that. I watch you. I see you. I count your breaths. I record your every
movement. When you pass by your little mirrors, you don’t think that you might
have just given this world the very last phenomenon that is your reflection.
And you don’t see me in the background salivating at the thought. You don’t see
me fantasizing of your broken neck, your mangled body, and the drippings of
your blood upon the floor. How entertaining that you are so unaware of me. But
I am here, and I see you.
How could I be so cruel? What have
you ever done to deserve such a fate as me? It’s not personal, I assure you.
It’s in my genetic tapestry, I suppose. I was born to kill you. It is my
nature.
I was more or less “the runt” of my
family. I was born small. My brothers and sisters would push, punch, and
wrestle with me. They thought was inferior, but they were wrong. I grew to be
strong like my father; smart like my mother. I wasn’t yet a year old the first time I saw
my father kill. It was glorious. It changed me. It gave me purpose. But I had
to learn his ways. I learned to listen.
Again, you make it all too easy. There you
are, going about your day. You feed, you exercise, you make your bed, and you
go to work. And I am always right behind you, waiting to take your miserable
little life…
“Mr. Tuna, you
naughty pussy cat!” Mrs. Dawson took a swipe at the cat, interrupting his intensive stares, and he leapt down onto the floor, slightly disappointed, “You
leave that poor little hamster alone!”
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