He was there again tonight. Watching me through my window as I pretended to sleep. He’s been coming to my window every night since I came to this place. He thinks I don’t know he’s there, he thinks he’s clever, but I see him. I feel him.
When he watches me, I’m stiff as stone. My heartbeat races, I start to sweat, and my blood runs cold. But I never move a muscle. Sometimes, he puts his hands on my window, his breath fogging the glass. Sometimes, I can hear him crying.
His intentions are sinister, I know it. He’s started to come in my room now. He sits in a chair by the foot of my bed, breathing heavy breaths, polluting my air. Sometimes, he will mumble things. Sometimes, he hums lullabies. Sometimes, he just cries.
Recently, he took a big step. He came into my room and looked at my paintings, touched them. He touched my paintings! Then, he pulled up a chair and sat at the foot of my bed, just watching me. I never look at him directly, I know if he sees me open my eyes, he will get me.
I’ve started to hear his whispers. They’re too faint for me to understand, but I know they’re there. I feel the pure evil in his voice. It scares me. And I hate being afraid. Something must be done.
I started to leave him messages. I would place them at the foot of my bed for him to find:
But when I wake up, my messages are gone, and replaced by his own sick, demented words:
“I’M HERE FOR YOU.”
“I WON’T GO.”
“I NEED YOU.”
This man is twisted. This man is vile. This man wants my blood. He wants me dead, I know it! I won’t allow that to happen. I cannot. So, I leave more messages:
“STOP COMING HERE.”
“I HATE YOU.”
Again, I wake to his disgusting responses:
“I LOVE YOU.”
“I’LL NEVER LEAVE.”
It burns my stomach that this man will not understand. It gnaws at my bones that he still chooses to come to my room every night. He thinks he can just get away with it.
But I grow tired of this little game we play.
Last night, I made sure to steal one of my art scissors and brought it to bed. I hid it under my pillow, pulled up my covers, and closed my eyes. Listening. Waiting…
He came to my window. He put his hand on the glass. He cried for a moment, then he entered my room.
He looked at my paintings, touched them again. He pulled up his chair, he sat and watched me. I waited. He started humming lullabies again. He stood and paced around the room, sobbing. He walked to the side of my bed, leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, and I drove my scissors deep into his throat.
I didn’t look at him. I knew he could still get me. But I heard as he choked on his own blood. I heard him fall to the floor grasping his neck, gurgling and gasping for air. Before he went still, he said one thing:
Large men broke down my door. They ran to the dead evil man, and took him away.
Then they took me away.
They strapped me down and put me in a padded room. I don’t understand why. I can’t paint, I can’t hang my art in here.
Eventually, a man who said he was a doctor came in. He sat at the edge of my bed like the man at my window. He pulled out his clipboard and spoke:
“Mrs. Rutger, I’d like for you to explain to me why you did what you did. What brought you to your actions? Do you recall your thought process?”
Wasn’t it obvious…?
“I stopped the evil man from coming into my room and watching me. I saved myself from being taken by him.”
The doctor stared at me for a moment.
“Mrs. Rutger, I’m afraid you’re not quite understanding what’s happened to you. You’ve been in a terrible car accident in which you lost your three children. Because of this, you had an extreme mental breakdown, and were admitted to Shining Pines Mental Health Facility. You’ve been here for quite some time. In fact, your husband has been the only one in your family to come see you since you arrived.”
I stared at him blankly.
“Mrs. Rutger… I don’t know how to say this… But your husband was the man you’ve just murdered.”