Dewey
He had arrived five days earlier, choosing a place to stay well outside of town. Somewhere quite and private. Somewhere without staff, or a check-in or check-out time. Somewhere no one had been in years, seemingly.
He wasn’t ready to see her yet. It had been so long since they had been together, but he wanted to cherish the gentle ache of being apart for just a little longer until he could sweep her up in his arms again and take her home.
He hadn’t seen her in so long he needed time just to see, just to watch, just to get to know her again before he revealed himself and they could be reunited.
Why had she run here instead of going home, he had wondered? He had smiled softly and sighed when he realized the answer. It was obvious. She was embarrassed and ashamed. After all that had happened it would have looked bad for her to be seen with him. So, darling that she was, she had run away, run away from him, her love, to start a dismal new life. All to protect him. That she would do that for him was truly something special. She was a saint. He really didn’t deserve to have the honor of calling her his fiancée.
So far he had bided his time, watching her settle in to her awful little shack of a house. When she went out he let himself inside (she had a key hidden outside under a rock; he now had a copy in his pocket) and let the ghosts of her presence - the faint hint of her lingering perfume, the smell of her unwashed clothes heaped in the laundry basket - rush through him.
He had planned to see her soon.
He imagined their reunion. She’d open the door to find him there, flowers in one hand and a basket of gifts in the other. Next to him would be a boom-box playing their song, the one they had danced to at their senior prom, before they had been separated.
Tears of joy would pour down her face and he’d kiss them off. Imagine her face when she saw him at the doorstep? At first she’d refuse to go with him, tell him to start his life afresh, to find someone else.
Perhaps she’d even pretend she didn’t want to see him. Like in the letter she’d sent him from prison. He shook his head sadly at the memory. She hadn’t meant it, of course.
But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. After all, they were meant to be together, forever, weren’t they?
They’d leave this awful little house in this awful little town and he’d take her home. Who cared what everyone else thought? Damn them all. Damn them all to hell.
But then something happened.
She went out one night and when she came back she wasn’t alone. She was driven home by a disgusting, ratty motorcycle enthusiast.
What on earth was happening, he wondered? It couldn’t have been consensual. It couldn’t. The man must have slipped something in her drink.
He watched as she knelt above his spread-eagled body, taking him into her mouth, her head bobbing up and down as she ran her hands up his thighs and cupped him.
She clearly wasn’t in a right state of mind. What was happening? They both sat upright on the bed, her impaled upon him as she dug in with her nails and raked his back leaving angry red marks behind.
This couldn’t be. No, no, no. She loved only him. Her head and neck arched back and her mouth opened wide as she screamed with pleasure. It was pain. She was screaming for help. But she wasn’t.
“I’ll fucking kill him.” The man, tears streaming down his face, couldn’t watch any longer. He turned off his camera and stalked away, his mind churning furiously.
“She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine.” He kicked at the sandy dirt. “She loves me.”
Under the light of the half-moon he stalked away to his nearby Toyota. He had supplies in there. Supplies he would need.