Especially now that he watched another man make me come with the very hand he threatened to cut off and put in my mailbox. I drop my head in my hands, instant regret filling up my body like a waterfall in a lake. I’m bursting with it because if the stalker is as insane as he says he is, then I just possibly got a man killed. Or at least brutally mutilated. I hear the door creak open. My head snaps up in response. “Come on out, fucker. I know you’re out there,” Arch threatens loudly. Peeking around the corner, I watch Arch step outside. But not before he pulls a gun out. Eyes bulging, my mouth falls open and I wonder just who the hell I let in my house. He shuts the door behind him, the resounding click of the door echoing in my head. Looks like I was wrong and did happen to find someone willing to kill for me. Jury's out on the fucking part, but if his foreplay is any indication, I think he would’ve done well in that department, too. Now more than ever, I want to kill this creep myself. I finally find a man capable of satisfying me, and this asshole is ruining it. God? I know we dont always agree on my life choices, but please don t let this poor man die because of me. I'll stop drinking. I mean it this time. And I also pray that Arch has good aim. If I walk out and find the weirdo with a bullet in his skull, I won’t mourn his death. For the next several minutes, I hear nothing at all. It’s hard to when my heart is pounding in my ears, but there would be no mistaking a gunshot. Fuck, I can’t handle this suspense. No longer capable of waiting, I rush over to the window beside the door and peek out. Arch's car is still sitting in my driveway, but I don’t see anything else. No bodies. Nothing. Shooting a quick prayer to my least favorite person at the moment, I open the door slowly, listening for any sounds of distress or fighting. When I’m greeted with nothing but the chirping of crickets, I open the door wider and step out. The crunch of something under my foot cements my body into stone. I close my eyes, another prayer on my tongue. If I stepped on a body part... oh my god—I’m going to freak. Taking a few short breaths, I move my foot away and look down. A rose, the petals crumpled from my foot. “Oh, fuck,” I mutter, bending down to pick up the rose. The thorns are snipped, preventing it from cutting me, but it doesn’t matter—this rose has not been deprived of one’s pain. Dripping off the petals and onto my boot is fresh blood. Arch is gone, and all that’s left of him is a bloody rose.