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  • Sonal

Femme Fatale




Hey There, Pretty Girl Next Door!

It might come off as weird, me writing this letter to you, given the fact that I haven't talked to you ever, in the first place. But honestly, there's this scary feeling inside me that stops me from exchanging words with you. The worst part is, it keeps growing each day. But I'll get to that part later.

I still remember when you moved to our lane. Considering how fucked up my luck usually is, it was pretty much a surprise when you moved in to the house next to mine. Being the loner that I am, I mostly don't bother about the people living around me in the neighborhood. But you weren't a regular neighbor. You were the hot chick from Augusta who had moved all way to LA to make it big in Hollywood. While that is a common story about every other girl here, there was something about you that told me you were different than all of them.

On the bright June afternoon when you moved in, damn! You looked like something fresh out of a Playboy magazine. That olive green tank top hugging your marvelously mesmerizing and ample breasts, and that black pleated skirt that outlined your ass and rode way high up your legs every time you bent to pick up a carton. I would be lying if I say I didn't check you out. Perhaps, that was the longest time that I had ever spent sitting on my porch. Oh, and your voice! Gorgeously husky. Your voice alone could make someone go hard. From all the phone calls you had been making and receiving, I figured out your name was Renee. That was also how I got to know why you moved to LA. And the way your lips parted when you spoke... Maddening enough to just keep smooching those plump, luscious, pink lips. And then you disappeared from my sight, to inside your house. I guessed that was the end of the show for me.

But as it turned out later, it wasn't. That night, and pretty much every other night, I saw you across your bedroom window, the way you'd glide around the room. It has always been magical to witness you strip down to your lingerie, with Black Sabbath playing in the background on most days. I think you know that I watch you, because let's face it, my work station is right across your bedroom window, so it's not difficult to notice that I spend most of my nights there. The tease was appealing to the extend that I had you on my mind every time I jerked off. And I had no voyeuristic intentions, but on nights when you brought over a lover, it was kinda difficult to stare away. The way you moved your body in the bed, it's only justified to say that you are Philotes herself. I have never envied any of the men that came over. But it has always been fascinating to observe your moves.

I assume it was something special the other night, when you were all dolled up, waiting for your lover of the night to make a move. I could see half of your face, with a seductive smile spread over it. I could see the man, who had obviously given in to it, walk towards you and nuzzle and kiss your neck, while you opened your lips to let out a moan. And then, I saw it. As he continued kissing you, your hand very slowly went over to your head and removed the pin that held your bun in place, and then very swiftly, you stuck it in his throat. As I stood there motionless, my eyes widening with horror, I saw blood gush out from his neck and trickle down your skin. As loud as I wanted to scream, it was as if my own throat had been punctured, rendering my vocal chords defunct. I saw the man gag, as he clutched his throat trying to stop the blood. Minutes later he was dead, his body falling with a thud next to your feet. That sinister look on your face that followed haunts me each time I fall asleep. With you dismembering his body and chopping it off into the tiniest of pieces, I have no evidence to prove your crime to the police.

I know you have seen me witness the entire murder episode, and somewhere deep down, I know you will come after me, even though it has been a month since the incident. Every time I leave my house, I get an eerie, uncanny feeling, like I am being watched. I live in fear, anticipating your moves to eventually kill me. All I can ask you is to make it fast and easy when you finally decide to pounce on me.

Not Yours, The Neighbor About to Die

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