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You knew it was a mistake. All of it was. You should’ve done something about this long ago. You should’ve changed the locks on your doors and windows, or maybe should’ve just bit the bullet and moved back into your mother’s old house across the country. But you’re too far gone now, he’ll find you eventually.
At first, it was just regular stalking, he’d watch you walk to work, he’d watch you in your bedroom. If you were there, he was there. He knew when you would leave for coffee on Sundays and when you would go to the local record store. You were etched on the back of his hand.
Then when he got sick of just watching, he broke in. You still remember the time you broke your favorite thrifted vase trying to throw it at a dark corner in the room when you heard him cough. Eventually, you got used to it, much to your dismay. He would just show up inside your apartment. Mostly to rummage through your fridge. After a while, you started to talk to him. Strike up small conversations that would usually end up being one-sided, as if you were talking to nothing. But the shuffling around would remind you that he was still there.
You learned his name.
“Jeff”, he said one night.
You didn’t bother saying your name, he already knew it.
It was a mistake when you first started hooking up with him. Him. The serial killer that would frequently come into your apartment for refuge. Covered in blood, smelled like death and rot. You still let him fuck you. After he showered of course.
Tonight was no different, he climbed in through the bedroom window even though he was welcome to use the front door. “Wasn’t part of his style,” he justified. Whatever, not like he justified any of his actions anyway. He was covered in that red liquid, the one that you so desperately helped wash off of his white hoodies. Tampering with evidence- you’re surprised nobody has caught on to what was happening. You’d both get the death penalty.
“God you stink,” you cringed, grabbing his hoodie from his pale white hands and wincing at the stained red liquid.
“Nice to see ya too,” he grunted.
“Whatever, go shower,” you replied, rolling your eyes and turning away from him. He only huffed in reply, as if he was a child. A child that could ruthlessly kill and run from the police for years. Nevertheless, still acted like a child. You listened to the water turn on when you walked away, He was probably going to take forever in that shower and use all of your expensive soaps. He didn’t shower much because he was always busy with his regular hobbies. But still, twenty dollars for shampoo was a lot.
You stared at his blood-stained jacket. Every month you menstruated, so getting blood out of clothing was easy enough for you. You slipped some gloves on and grabbed the jacket, walking into the bathroom and grabbing his other blood-stained clothes with a quick, “I’m coming in,”.
Eventually, he walked out of the shower, to find you sitting on the bed, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. You could’ve only dreamed of having gone to fashion school instead of just majoring in business and working at a restaurant. But fashion school was expensive. And you probably would’ve never met Jeff.
He smelled strongly of strawberries when he walked out, and you got a bigger whiff when he plopped down next to you dramatically.
“Long day at work, honey?” you asked sarcastically, pairing it with a flip of a page.
“If I got paid, we’d be sitting on a porch above the city,” he sighed, turning his head to look at you. You looked down at him for a second, his scars started to scab up on his face, his once bright red smile now brownish-red. He was probably going to recarve himself some time. The thought of that made you grimace.
“You and I both hate the city,” you commented, turning your head back to your magazine, looking at the beautiful model with her bold, bright makeup. Blue eyeshadow was in season now, and so was maximalism, along with some pathetic attempts at bringing back skinny jeans. Jeff would probably like that. He sighed, knowing you were right about both of your hate for the city.
He moved and plopped his head on your lap, his damp hair seeping through your satin shorts. As if he was a dog. How cute. You reached down to run your fingers through his jet-black hair. The locks were soft and smelled of the strong medical-grade shampoo you bought. The expensive one. He savored the touch and you’d be sure he would be purring if he was a cat.
There were times Jeffery would show his soft side, he used to hate cuddling. The kind of one to do a quickie and hop out the window while you were in the bathroom. Oh, how have times changed. He craved and yearned for your touch. But was too prideful to ask for it outright, you’d just have to assume.
Jeff didn’t realize how much he loved cuddles until he reluctantly laid in bed with you after a random session, when you grabbed onto him, he flinched but melted into your touch. Even Superman had kryptonite. Jeff had you. He snuck his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer. You placed the magazine on your nightstand. You turned your attention back to him, sinking into the bed, your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You sunk down the pillows, bits of your hair stuck to the pillowcases.
Your lips found their way to his, lightly kissing him when he lifted his head up. He snuggled next to you when you pulled away. His head was buried in the crook of your neck and brought the blanket up to his cold, pale body. You kissed the top of his head. Your fingers tangled in his hair. His arms wrapped snuggly around your waist as if you were going to disappear.
You knew it was a mistake, falling in love with him.