October 17, 2016

You Used To Call Me ‘The Creep Who Lives Down The Street’ — So Here’s What I Decided To Do About It

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What is the issue?

I received your package.

Your house is number 75, mine is 57. Surely, the mailman couldn’t have mixed it up on purpose; he was a player in our fate.

It was a brown medium sized box, packed heavily, with post stamps and a waybill stuck on the front of it.

I received your package.

I examined the label; from what I gathered, it was from Los Angeles – some online fashion website. Los Angeles, huh? It came a long way to get to our small suburban development here in Oregon. I imagined you sitting in your room, on your laptop, the backlight lighting up your face as you refreshed your e-mail, tracking the package as it travelled from state to state, excitement swelling in your chest to try on that new dress and pair of jeans.

That’s what you seemed to do, stay indoors. Fall began in Oregon; and despite you claiming its your favorite season to your friends on the phone, you chose to remain indoors.

I watched the mailman drive away.

Do you remember that time you chased the UPS man down in his truck? He didn’t notice you until he had reached the end of the street. You stood there, your hands on your knees, bent forward, huffing and puffing as the package stayed tucked under your arm. With your thin frame and long legs, you could’ve fooled me into thinking you were an athlete – maybe a cheerleader, or a dancer.

I’ve imagined what it would be like for you to be my personal cheerleader; cheering for me on the sidelines as I do my daily routine, no matter how mundane it was.

You never cared to know my name; you always referred to me as “the creep who lives down the street.” It hurt my feelings; I was a nice guy, why couldn’t you see that? You knew I lived alone; but you never talked to me. I lived alone because I could never get pretty girls like you to go on dates with me – I only attracted trash, the lowest of the low.

A couple weeks ago, when I would say “hi,” you would smile. If you were in a good mood, you would ask how I was doing. But you stopped doing that.

So I developed a plan:

I would walk my dog, Penny, the same time you would go on your weekly run with your friend, Mehgan. You didn’t smile or wave to me, you acted as if I didn’t exist – it really did hurt my feelings, you know. You were beginning to act like every other pretty girl that rejected me; ignoring my entire presence as if I disgusted you.

I wasn’t one to hold grudges; I was willing to move past that, to build on our beautiful friendship that was going to blossom. When I was finished with you, you would know more than just my name; you would know my story.

So, I would go to your workplace. To the small 24-hour diner on the outskirts of town that served burnt coffee and stale pastries. You came over many times, serving me a coffee: black, one sugar. You introduced yourself, your name rolled off your tongue like a wave hitting the shore lazily. I kept my head down under my hat, but I watched you – I watched you tuck of strand of your blonde hair behind your ear; I knew you were a natural blonde, your light eyebrows gave it away. All the other girls you worked with were fake blondes – they forgot to bleach their eyebrows to a lighter color, those plastic whores.

But I liked you because you were natural. Everything came naturally to you: the way you smiled at guests no matter how shitty of a mood they were in, the bounce in your step as you came to take an order, and the way your perfume lingered after you left.

Last night, I sat with the other broad who lives with me. It’s rare to sit on the couch with her; usually she stays hidden in her room. She was a real catch at the time; but I grew bored of her. She had the Southern hospitality that I liked, but she wasn’t what I wanted; she bleached her hair to be blonde, she worked at a bar, sometimes dancing on tables when her shift was done – she was getting trashy.

I needed someone perfect in my life, someone like you.

So, I was watching TV, and she sat beside me, silent. That’s what I like about her now; she doesn’t talk back. No matter what I say or do to her, she won’t ever talk back; she learned her lesson a couple weeks ago. Nine o’clock rolled around, and I knew that’s when you go on your fifteen-minute break.

It took me thirty minutes to drive to the diner you work at, just in time for you to get off your break. I was almost served by someone else, but I gave them that look; the one you said was creepy; and they sat me in your section.

You weren’t as friendly last night, you seemed to be on edge about something – I didn’t like that, I took it personally. You were starting to ruin the perfect image I had of you, and turning into the broad I had back home. I didn’t like that; it angered me.

I didn’t leave you a nice tip like I usually did. I was angry with you.

I went home and looked at the package sitting on the table. You angered me; you threw off my plan.

I was going to give you your package tomorrow afternoon, before you left for work, but now I want to speak to you, to have a conversation with you.

I waited until I saw your headlights pull into the street, and listened for the car door to slam. Then, I came out with Penny on a leash in one hand, your package on the other.

I made sure I looked calm and composed, but my heart was racing. I was nervous to talk to you, and I was excited about tonight.

I said, “Excuse me,” and you turned around, a bit startled. You saw Penny and your face instantly lit up, now that really angered me. You were genuine to a dumb dog, but to me your face went back into a stone cold expression.

That hurt me.

I bent down to let Penny off her leash, so that she ran around your feet. You were distracted; petting her and cooing at her to notice I reached into my back pocket to pull out a cloth soaked in chloroform. I bunched it up, hiding it in a fist.

“I know it’s early in the morning, but the mailman must’ve mixed up our packages,” I said to you, reaching out, taking it from my free hand.

You took the package, my bait. You didn’t even notice when my arm struck out, and I put the cloth over your mouth, my other arm reaching around your neck, making sure you couldn’t get away until your body slumped, dead weight.

Penny whined; I kicked her, making her shut up. She followed us home; nobody was on the street at six in the morning; they were just hitting ‘snooze’ on their alarms.

We went back to my house, down into the basement where the other broad was. I sat you beside her like a trophy. When you came to, you were kicking and screaming; I didn’t like that. I told you to not talk back to me – to be just like the broad beside you.

That’s when you really started to scream, when you realized she couldn’t talk back because she was a lifeless corpse beside you with her mouth sewn shut.

And now, when I’m done with you, you will join her. TC mark

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