Page 19 of Cruel Delights
A sad, innocent little lamb that’s being led to slaughter without even knowing it.
What is it that’s gotten you so down in the dumps, little lamb?
The question lingers at the forefront of my mind as I stand on the opposite side of the train car, holding on to the metal bar above.
She doesn’t notice a thing. She’s completely unaware that, as she jumps to her feet and gets off at her subway stop, I do the same from two doors down. She has no clue a predatory man who could devour her as an afternoon snack trails behind her every step of the way home.
Such easy, easy game. Too easy, too unearned.
Lyra lives in an apartment building that was once a sheet metal warehouse. The building still possesses many qualities of a warehouse—squat in shape, cold floors and unsightly brick walls, a permanent draft that surfs the air, with structural issues that likely wouldn’t pass modern building code.
The rent per apartment is well out of her income bracket; however, she’s been lucky enough to latch onto a man willing to pay most of the rent. She contributes a measly six hundred for her single bedroom while the rest of the space seems to be his.
As she retreats into the warehouse building, I invite myself to the second floor of a corner store across the street from her. The entire floor is comprised of an office, though judging by the cobwebs I find when I pick the lock and enter, it’s not often used. If someone happens by, I’ll lie and pretend I’m interested in purchasing the property.
With the salary I make and inheritance I have, I easily could. If I truly wanted to, I could buy the whole damn block Lyra lives on.
I make it to the office window at the same time the door pops open to her bedroom. She tosses her book bag on the floor and then flops backward onto her bed.
No surprise that she keeps an incredibly messy room. It’s borderline unsightly.
Clothes scattered everywhere. Stacks of books wedged onto a small bookshelf and even used as a prop for an old can of soda and an assortment of other crumpled up snacks she’s only half eaten. She’s papered the walls with collages and mood boards known as “lifestyle inspo.”
For a while, she lays around in her unmade bed, staring up at the ceiling. Occasionally, her lips move as she presumably talks to herself.
I need a means of listening in. I make a mental note to bug her room at my first opportunity. In the trunk of my Tesla I keep a duffle bag of camera and mic equipment for instances like these, where I may need to track my prey.
Eventually, she sits up and digs around inside the drawer of her bedside table. She pulls out a lighter and what looks vaguely like a cigarette. Squinting my eyes from behind the pair of binoculars I’ve brought with me, I stare at the tiny rolled up item in her hand and realize it’s no cigarette.
It’s a joint.
Lyra Hendrix is a pothead.
Of course she is.
Perhaps the most unsurprising piece of information I’ve learned about her.
She lays back amongst her many pillows and wrinkled sheets and inhales a deep puff from her joint. Whatever was troubling her only moments ago seems to melt away as she closes her eyes and lets her limbs spread out at her sides.
You’d think she was on vacation at some luxury resort the way she’s lounging. The calm sense of satisfaction that comes over her face.
No wonder she’s a loser.
When she’s not feeling sorry for herself like earlier, all she does is lay around and get high.
I grit my teeth and glare at her from behind my binoculars. Perhaps I reallydoneed to add a new why to my list of requirements—a waste of life deserving to have it taken away.
That category perfectly fits someone like Lyra Hendrix. If she won’t fight for herself, then she deserves to be put out of her misery.
6Kaden
Cyber Sex - Doja Cat
Hours pass by before I realize it. I have a tendency to immerse myself in my surveillance when pursuing new prey. Those in my life, like Rebecca, my secretary at the medical office, are aware I have a habit of disappearing at random.
Usually when I do, it’s for a reason like this. However, I’ve never lost track forhoursbefore.
The sun is setting by the time I blink and Lyra’s springing up in her bed. She’s spent the afternoon high as a kite, rolling around every so often. At some point, she grew too hot and stripped off her pants, settling in her tank top and panties.