Fan Boy

WARNING: DISTURBING CONTENT (Fan Boy came to me while I was driving back from dropping Hamster Wong off at work this morning. Very disturbing, I know. Leave me a comment, tell me if you hate it or love it. Feel free to tell your friends what a sicko I am!)

He sat still in his living room; her picture clutched to his chest and imagined their bodies entangled, their legs touching, his lips on her neck, his hands coasting over her body. He saw himself lying over her. In his mind, his hands moved to her neck and clamped down on it. He saw her shock unravelling, the sight of her pupils contracting, showing him her beautiful blue irises.

She was too beautiful for words, a goddess – possibly a mythological enchantress. He loved following her wherever she went, he loved watching her as she slept, picturing himself wrapping her beautifully long, blond hair around her long neck, pulling tight and whispering to her as she slipped into eternal bliss.

Drawn out of his ruminations by the white noise on the television, he looked down at his hands. They were great hands, gentle yet strong, rough yet comforting. Hands that once used to fix luxury cars. Everything had changed the moment she had walked into the garage, claiming her car was over-heating. He had been perfectly normal before, he used to have friends to pass time with after work, the occasional date with whichever girl he wanted. He never had a problem getting female companionship, he was good-looking enough, certainly well-built and was a gentleman – at least until she showed up.

Now, he was spellbound. He no longer needed to go to work; no longer felt the need to join his friends at night, no woman could steal his attention away from her. She brought peculiar thoughts bubbling to the surface. Sighing at her picture, now crumpled and worn from all the nights he had spent looking at it. He would have to get a better picture. Perhaps one of her running. How beautiful she would look if she were running away, her face contorted with the look of fear.

He had often wondered whether fear turned her on, whether it sent her into pure ecstasy. She did look quite scared the day he accidentally stepped on a twig outside her window. She was so afraid of the sounds coming from outside her house that she turned on every light in the house. She was a good girl, she never brought men home. He had wished she did, possibly because he would be able watch as other men failed to satisfy her. He was sure he would be able to give her everything she needed.

He reached down, grabbing his manhood and began to pump furiously as he imagined the sight of her body displayed for him on the wall. He imagined how breathtaking it would be to have her hanging on his wall, suspended in air with wall hooks with her naked perfection there for him to enjoy every second of the day. She would look like the angel that she was. The feeling of placing each one of those hooks, sinking them into her skin would be unrivalled joy.

He climaxed at the thought. It was time to freshen up, it was getting late and she would be readying her bath water soon. He loved watching her pour the bath salts into the tub; she did enjoy submerging herself completely before soaking. The sight of her hair floating in the water did things to him he could not understand.

Tonight, he would enter her home, through a window that she constantly forgot to lock and watch her sleep. She snored ever so lightly and it amused him. There were nights he massaged her feet when she was sleeping deeply, if only to illicit a moan. Poor thing, she worked so hard for nothing. If she had noticed him that day in the garage, he may not have dared to do such a thing. She had not seen him at all. She popped the hood of the car so easily and peered inside; telling the boys how she thought it was the radiator. So beautiful.

As he slipped on his gloves, he saw her bathroom light come on. It was not easy to climb up the tree nearest to the bathroom window, but it was worth it. He grunted as he climbed and just as he reached the perfect spot to observe her, he heard her sobs. She was crying. Why was she crying? She was talking into her mobile phone, attempting to talk between sobs. Her father had passed away.

Filled with queer joy at the thought of there being one less man between the two of them, he could no longer control the urge to reveal himself to her. To make her know that even if no man loved her, he did. To show her how truly beautiful she was. To teach her how to love him. He would make her feel him. Force her to see how beautiful pain could be.

She was getting into the tub now. He planned his move, and executed it with fast, deft moves. He appeared in her bathroom like a ghost while, she was submerging herself in the water. When she came up for air, she saw him. She screamed and he was filled with excitement. She was so beautiful. Droplets of water mixed with her tears, she began splashing. The sight of her naked body so close to him spurred a reaction.

He grabbed her neck, as he had imagined doing so many times before and began to squeeze. Her flailing arms flew to his hands, attempting to fight him off. He laughed and pulled her to him so she could see his face. Her eyes widened with recognition and he plunged her into the water. He just wanted her unconscious, at least momentarily until he got her back to his house. She needed to be awake when he nailed her to the wall. She fought, her nails digging into his wrists sending biting pain through him.

There was no way she was strong enough to fight him off, but he silently applauded her for trying. He liked his girls this way – fighting him. As she fell into an unconscious state, the grip of her beautiful hands on his wrists loosened. She was not dead, yet. He carried her wet body out of the water and flung her out the window. Her body landed with a soft thud, his senses reeling at the sight of her naked, twisted body lying on the ground.

Hours later, back in his living room, he stared at his beautiful work of art. She had begged, pleaded, cried and sobbed. She tried to scream each time a hook was passed through her skin. She was a fighter. A beautiful one. Her hair was artistically splayed on the wall. Her eyes, still open, had rolled to the side, staring at him, her dead, dilated pupils giving her an innocent look. Driving the nails through her palms had been exhilarating. She had kicked him, with her beautiful long legs, but all resistance ceased the moment he crushed her windpipe.

The blood seeping through her wounds and flowing down the wall in rivulets was breathtaking. Tomorrow he would go back to work. He would start meeting his friends and dating new girls. Now that he had possessed his woman the best way a man could, he was ready to go back to being himself. He fell into a deep slumber as she watched over him, as she would every night of every day - forever.


I would like to apologise in advance, if anyone has found this particular flash fiction piece offensive. I have written awful things before. Epic is also worth your time if you feel like getting down with the psychopath thing.
Catch chapters of The Builder here: Chapter 16.