Chapter 6: October 23 - Your Halloween Stalker

Hello my little nightmare,

Fuck me, that mask looked so fucking good on you. Yes, I saw you try it on. No, I'm not telling you from where. You went back to the Halloween shop after work and picked up that black lace half-mask. You held it over your face, looked into the mirror and stayed there long enough that I thought you might actually be enjoying the reflection. But then you frowned, turned sideways, adjusted your hair and pulled at the hem of your top. There was this look on your face like you were searching for whatever flaw would give you permission to put the mask back.

You obviously found one, you always do. I heard you whisper, "Too much," and take it off. That pissed me right the fuck off. Too much for who, sweetheart? You like the mask. It makes your eyes look darker and your mouth look indecently noticeable, and fuck, I stared at your mouth for way too long. You looked hot in it. More importantly, you looked like you knew you looked hot for about three seconds before that miserable little voice in your head showed up and told you to sit down.

I'd like five minutes alone with that voice in your head. Shame I can't actually beat the shit out of an insecurity, because I'd enjoy trying. But you bought the mask anyway, and fuck, that helped.

Then you stood at the counter, glanced toward the window and smiled to yourself while the woman wrapped it. You knew I might be watching. I could tell by the way you looked around after you stepped outside. You weren't doing that jumpy checking you did after the first letter. You were looking for me because you wanted to know if I'd seen you.

I had. Then I went and bought my own mask because apparently I have no fucking self-control where you're concerned. Black. Plain. Nothing stupid on it, and I made sure I could actually see out of the damn thing because tripping over a fake tombstone would really kill the mood. I've put it on twice already and thought about you both times. Tonight the fantasy is simple and I'm going to share it with you. I'm behind you in front of a mirror, we're both wearing masks and my hands are on your waist because you put them there.

I don't grab you because I don't have to. I wait, and you're the one who leans back first, settling your head against my shoulder while you keep your eyes on our reflection. That's the part that keeps replaying in my head: my mouth is close to your ear while I tell you what the mask does to me, my thumbs moving over your hips. I think you'd be nervous and turned on enough to laugh at yourself for it, because your sense of humor has the worst fucking timing.

Then I'd tell you to keep looking at yourself. That part has been stuck in my head all day. You look away from yourself all the fucking time, sweetheart. Mirrors, photos, shop windows, even when somebody tells you you're beautiful. You hear a compliment and immediately start trying to prove them wrong. I want to see what happens when you can't brush me off that easily. Fuck, even writing that down gets me worked up.

Maybe because I know you'd argue. Maybe because I'd enjoy proving my point slowly. Your friend is taking you for drinks tonight. I heard you agree after she promised not to discuss me for one whole evening, which was probably optimistic on both sides. Go. and have fun. Wear the mask I know is in your bag if you feel like doing something reckless and harmless. I'll be somewhere in the world trying not to imagine it.

That last sentence was a lie.

Sleep eventually, beautiful.

The bastard with the matching mask.

P.S. If you catch yourself looking in the mirror tonight and thinking you're too much, try something new. Leave the thought there and walk away without taking it with you.