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The texture of the folded-too-many-times newspaper clipping against the tips of her fingers as she dipped her hand into the wide pocket of her sweatshirt was like like the teasing breath of a lover against the nape of her chilled neck. Anticipation for this morning caused the blood to pound a rhythm of excitement in her ears, as slowly, with utmost care, Lori removed from her pocket a crumpled, faded scrap of paper which she held in her gently cupped hand.
Her breath came in short, excited hiccups as the girl stood beside her dingy mailbox sitting at the end of the gravel driveway at lonely, slightly crooked angle. The trailer behind her was dark and quiet, the occupants not yet awake despite the cool grey morning light that was already spilling from the horizon hidden by a sentry of ancient pine trees. The home had a defeated, dirty look to it with the obvious sag of the porch and tattered blinds half closed over the windows like heavy eyelids. A rusted, broken wind chime winked at her but made no music, as only one remained hanging desolately from a worn piece of string.
The girl, Lorelei, was holding the paper as though it were a good luck token, this girl at the end of the driveway. Her age was hard to determine- she appeared to be of average height compared to the mailbox, wearing a worn backpack, tennis shoes and snug jeans with a loosely fitted green sports jacket that hung comfortably on her frame, except across her notably over-large bosom which strained on the zipper done up to her throat. Her face was young, her eyes wide and clear and innocent, her hair pulled away from her face in a bouncy ponytail, but her body curved in a way that suggested maturity, her jeans stretched taut over hips that weren't completely hidden by her jacket.
The girl hesitantly traced the humpback curve of the metal contraption before yanking it open by the lip of the box with a startled screech of rusted metal, and when she peered inside she found it empty of anything other than the windowed envelopes that contained various bills announcing her step father's name, each stamped with increasing urgency.
She snapped it closed and let out the breath she had been holding in anticipation. He hadn't written her back, but then again had she really expected him to? It made no difference.
Setting off at an unhurried pace down the street, Lori finally unfolded the worn photo she had taken years ago from the old newspaper her previous step father had left on the table, marked with rings from his coffee mug, and felt her body respond with a new wave of anticipation. Staring up at her was the handsome face of a boy marked a convicted criminal, being walked into (out of?) a courthouse flanked by two uniformed officers. She traced the photo with the tip of her index finger, her teeth finding her lower lip, as she reflected on how this whole thing had even begun.
Obsession. That was almost putting it mildly, this craze of hers, not that this was the first time it had happened. She still remembered vividly the first time she had become obsessed with someone to this degree, years ago. She had been, what, thirteen at the time? The man she hardly remembered now had been a neighbor's friend, an older man she had spied while laying on the lawn attempting to sunbathe with some baby oil she had nicked from her mother's make-up cabinet. Sitting up on her elbows with a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on her nose, she had watched him notice her, take in her thinly veiled curves in a bikini a size too small for her growing body, and she knew she would have him no matter the cost. She stalked him to the point she was intercepting his mail, waiting for him outside the building where he worked; he was married, he had children. But she wouldn't let him go until-
No. She would not let her mind go there. Not now.
Because she was going to meet him.
This time it was different, he was not some older, married gentleman. He had to be what, in his twenties by now? She had followed his trials on the internet best she could on the school library computers, and she had never forgotten him, that chilling smile, the first time she saw a colored photo of him on the internet, the way it made her heart stop. She had quietly obsessed over him for years now, imagining his face, what he would look like up close, what color his eyes would be. She wanted him, she wanted him to want her. He had apparently murdered a handful women, but he was underage, and the evidence was all over the place. It didn't hold up in court, She had done her research and learned that he was being released from prison and she intended to find him. She could think of nothing else until she did, until she felt those lips on her own; how tenderly would he hold her, this man? Would he smile when he saw her, would he treat her gently?
Lori had written him, twice, during his sentence. First, to confess her feelings for him and then again to tell him that she wanted to meet him. She given him a time and a place where, hopefully, he would wait for her. She intended to catch a bus or hitch hike to the city over, and hopefully, he would be there (she had imagined their meeting about a hundred times, before she closed her eyes at night, the way he would light up when he saw her, despite his lonely broken soul). He had not bothered to write her back, but she told herself it was because he was busy, because he was shy, because of a million other reasons. She had included a photograph of herself, she had written him a poem, she had told him how she often thought of him when she lay awake at night. It was childish, but that's how he made her feel. It was hearts, and butterflies. She imagined him using her photo, imagined him pining for her as he walked for the first time into the world as a free man since he was a boy.
He would be there, she just knew it.
Her breath came in short, excited hiccups as the girl stood beside her dingy mailbox sitting at the end of the gravel driveway at lonely, slightly crooked angle. The trailer behind her was dark and quiet, the occupants not yet awake despite the cool grey morning light that was already spilling from the horizon hidden by a sentry of ancient pine trees. The home had a defeated, dirty look to it with the obvious sag of the porch and tattered blinds half closed over the windows like heavy eyelids. A rusted, broken wind chime winked at her but made no music, as only one remained hanging desolately from a worn piece of string.
The girl, Lorelei, was holding the paper as though it were a good luck token, this girl at the end of the driveway. Her age was hard to determine- she appeared to be of average height compared to the mailbox, wearing a worn backpack, tennis shoes and snug jeans with a loosely fitted green sports jacket that hung comfortably on her frame, except across her notably over-large bosom which strained on the zipper done up to her throat. Her face was young, her eyes wide and clear and innocent, her hair pulled away from her face in a bouncy ponytail, but her body curved in a way that suggested maturity, her jeans stretched taut over hips that weren't completely hidden by her jacket.
The girl hesitantly traced the humpback curve of the metal contraption before yanking it open by the lip of the box with a startled screech of rusted metal, and when she peered inside she found it empty of anything other than the windowed envelopes that contained various bills announcing her step father's name, each stamped with increasing urgency.
She snapped it closed and let out the breath she had been holding in anticipation. He hadn't written her back, but then again had she really expected him to? It made no difference.
Setting off at an unhurried pace down the street, Lori finally unfolded the worn photo she had taken years ago from the old newspaper her previous step father had left on the table, marked with rings from his coffee mug, and felt her body respond with a new wave of anticipation. Staring up at her was the handsome face of a boy marked a convicted criminal, being walked into (out of?) a courthouse flanked by two uniformed officers. She traced the photo with the tip of her index finger, her teeth finding her lower lip, as she reflected on how this whole thing had even begun.
Obsession. That was almost putting it mildly, this craze of hers, not that this was the first time it had happened. She still remembered vividly the first time she had become obsessed with someone to this degree, years ago. She had been, what, thirteen at the time? The man she hardly remembered now had been a neighbor's friend, an older man she had spied while laying on the lawn attempting to sunbathe with some baby oil she had nicked from her mother's make-up cabinet. Sitting up on her elbows with a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on her nose, she had watched him notice her, take in her thinly veiled curves in a bikini a size too small for her growing body, and she knew she would have him no matter the cost. She stalked him to the point she was intercepting his mail, waiting for him outside the building where he worked; he was married, he had children. But she wouldn't let him go until-
No. She would not let her mind go there. Not now.
Because she was going to meet him.
This time it was different, he was not some older, married gentleman. He had to be what, in his twenties by now? She had followed his trials on the internet best she could on the school library computers, and she had never forgotten him, that chilling smile, the first time she saw a colored photo of him on the internet, the way it made her heart stop. She had quietly obsessed over him for years now, imagining his face, what he would look like up close, what color his eyes would be. She wanted him, she wanted him to want her. He had apparently murdered a handful women, but he was underage, and the evidence was all over the place. It didn't hold up in court, She had done her research and learned that he was being released from prison and she intended to find him. She could think of nothing else until she did, until she felt those lips on her own; how tenderly would he hold her, this man? Would he smile when he saw her, would he treat her gently?
Lori had written him, twice, during his sentence. First, to confess her feelings for him and then again to tell him that she wanted to meet him. She given him a time and a place where, hopefully, he would wait for her. She intended to catch a bus or hitch hike to the city over, and hopefully, he would be there (she had imagined their meeting about a hundred times, before she closed her eyes at night, the way he would light up when he saw her, despite his lonely broken soul). He had not bothered to write her back, but she told herself it was because he was busy, because he was shy, because of a million other reasons. She had included a photograph of herself, she had written him a poem, she had told him how she often thought of him when she lay awake at night. It was childish, but that's how he made her feel. It was hearts, and butterflies. She imagined him using her photo, imagined him pining for her as he walked for the first time into the world as a free man since he was a boy.
He would be there, she just knew it.