Deep November

two.

I always knew I wasn't right in the head.

How I'd gotten into murdering people was a whole other debacle in and of itself, but long before then I knew there was something most people were born with that I was lacking.

I didn't kill squirrels or torture kittens or lock my little sisters in closets to hear them scream. I didn't feel the need to hurt anyone, however, I also had no idea what sympathy felt like and empathy was something that was fleeting if I felt it at all.

Instead of telling anyone that I genuinely didn't care when I'd heard news of the misfortune of others, I kept it to myself. Everyone else would be devastated, crying even, and I'd play along. Pretending to be sad, forcing myself to cry, acting as if my life was impacted in every single way, the act of it all was thrilling. A course of adrenaline shot through my veins every time a family member, friend or even stranger patted me on the back, gave me a sympathetic hug, or told me they were sorry for my loss.

I wasn't focused on the loss, I was focused on the thrill of being so good at pretending that people actually believed me. I was almost giddy on the inside with how good I was at pretending to be just like everyone else. Nobody had ever suspected a thing.

That's when I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was fucked in the head.

So of course, when I went out the next day to buy the best camera I could find and a wireless printer I knew I was probably, most definitely, actively making questionable choices.

But I didn't really care.

Armed with my new camera, my hair hidden under a baseball cap and my car parked on the corner of the street by Addison's house, I waited for her to leave for work. It was about six in the morning when I'd parked, the sun was barely out all the way so the chill in the air was more prominent than it had been all week.

When the front door to the house opened at seven o'clock, I jumped up and sat in position, ready to observe.

Stalking normally bored me, it was a necessary evil in my line of work and usually I couldn't stand it.

Today, I was almost shaking with excitement.

Imagine my disappointment when it was Derek who left the house, walking down the street to where his own car was parked not far from the front of the house. He looked like he was in a hurry, fumbling with his keys to get the door of his black Mercedes open without scratching the door.

I rolled my eyes. He was not who I wanted to see this morning.

He drove away rather quickly, peeling out of his parking spot like he had somewhere to be. I rose an eyebrow, wondering for a moment why a man who practically made his own schedule would be in such a rush. Out of the corner of my eye as I watched Derek's car speed down the road, I noticed the front door opened again.

She came out onto the front porch, a travel mug of coffee in one hand and a purse hanging off her elbow on the same side. I snapped a quick picture, noting that her dominant hand was her right one. With her free hand, she locked the door behind her and made her way down to where her own grey Bentley was parked.

Oh sweetie, if only you knew.

Immediately, I was entranced. My breath caught in my throat and it was at that very moment that I knew she was different. Something about her was different.

Her hair was surrounding her face in wild red curls, the slight draft in the air making her stray hairs dance as she unlocked her car and gracefully slid in, despite the fact that she was wearing a pair of Jimmy Choo heels. A dark red lipstick painted her lips, making her pale skin look even more flawless in comparison. Everything about her was captivating.