His Captive Ch. 01

His Captive Ch. 01


He first saw her three weeks ago from across the street.

Sitting on a high stool in an ice cream shop, a band of sunlight crosses her bare brown forearm, being served an elaborate ice-cream concoction topped with synthetic syrup.

It was erected and brought to her by a pimply brute of a boy in a greasy bow-tie who eyed her -as she wore a simple white shirt with mechanical grease stains, shorts and red converse crossed at the ankles -with carnal deliberation. She did not seem to pay heed to the boy's lingering form.

Malachi was enchanted at first glance.

He did not see her again for three weeks. Their second distant interaction happened to occur as he walked past a mechanic garage. He saw her yet again.

"Oliver!" A boy was yelling over the hood of an open car and his gaze followed the line of vision.

She rolled out from beneath a car, reaching for a cloth to wipe her grease stained hands.

Oliver.

The boy was talking but Malachi did not hear him, all he saw was the girl.

Oliver.

She wears a blood red shirt tucked into shorts, the front is stained with grease. She was short, perhaps a good five foot five, and of normal density.

For a second to him, her face was less pretty than the mental imprint he had cherished for more than three weeks; hollow cheeks, slight lentigo on her rosy rustic features. A mane of thick Auburn hair tied at the crown of her head in what was meant to be a bun, but the end result seemed less of it.

She was all rose and honey. Desultory walk up to the boy, huff of cheeks as she blows a stray curl off her forehead. Her arms and legs were of a deep golden brown, with scratches like tiny dotted lines of coagulated rubies.

She was wan looking but sun-colored all the same.

Malachi watched her talk to the boy, the curve of her mouth, stray hand that rises to scratch the back of her ear. A nervous tick, he supposed, and it was cute.

Oliver laughed at something the boy said, head thrown back, arms crossing over her chest in shyness. It was amazing how much he knew of her actions with only two meetings; how predictable she was. Possibly one of the reasons as to why it drew him even closer.

He sat on the bench across the garage workshop, gazette sprawled across his lap, a bottle of untouched lemonade by his side. His eyes remained fixated on her figure as she moved from one room to another, one car to another, one customer to another.

He stared, traced, memorized, then rose when he felt full of her, and departed.

He allowed another month of simply watching and studying- a species he wished to completely learn before deciding on the final judgement.

He mastered her daily monotonous routine; wake up by half past six, dress, coffee and toast with a repelling amount of thick nutella, ride a bike or take the car to work, hustle for five or six hours, talk with certain co-workers; Charlie, Marco, Dian and Dina. Have her lunch of cold cut sandwiches, head home after or to a friend's.

Oliver had rented his mind and body and as time slipped by, his impatience to have her was becoming more than he could endure.

Each action henceforth, was obscured by motives of lust and want.

Not obsession, obsession was for stalkers.

This was different, Malachi thought knowingly, this was his.

His body felt it, his mind accepted it and his soul - oh, his soul was praying for a chance to devour hers.

In the second month, he followed her home as usual, and sat by the benches, cautious of keeping ample distance. He watched her embrace a small boy who resembled her, playing with a water gun on the front lawn, then enter her house.

Evening encroached and darkness fell, still he remained on the bench, hands closed over a cup of lukewarm water. Cerulean eyes trailing after a car that pulls into the drive through, an older woman and man both dressed in pressed suits. Parents. They walk in as the boy throws himself into the arms of his father.

Malachi stands from his bench and edges forward, towards a tree directly opposite their American structured home. He stands beneath the tree, staring at silhouettes that move about.

His Oliver is in the kitchen, aiding her mother in preparing dinner. Father in the living room with a can of chilled beer dangling precariously on one hand, son setting the table.

They eat rotisserie chicken, rice and peas.

Malachi's lips cast downwards in mild contempt at the cheapened food.

Where the chicken should be golden brown, faintest crisp on outer edge, moist and white as snow inside - it is simply gray and store bought. The rice is clamped, not washed and set in cold water, steamed to perfection, un-breaking. And the peas, god the peas. Deplorable.

Yet his Oliver scarfs the food down like a malnourished infant, spoonful after spoonful, she eats without pausing for breath. Reaching for a glass of orange juice - a drink he does not agree with especially for dinner, wine would always be preferable or cold carbonated water - she gulps that down too and pushes the plate aside.

The glow of her fulfilled face increases his excitement. If she loved food, she would love his culinary skills. He would prepare the most exotic cuisines.

Loin served with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits, Boudin Noir from Ali Bab's Gastronomie Pratique, Foie gras au torchon with a late harvest of vidal sauce with dried and fresh figs, Langue d'agneau en papillotes served with a sauce of duxelles and oyster mushrooms and so on.

Wine, cocktails, spring water, juice from freshly squeezed fruits - he would treat her like the Queen she is. His queen.

Eventually, the family departed into their respective rooms, lights flickering off.

He waited for another cautious hour.

Then approached the kitchen window. Removing a clip and makeshift knife, Malachi gently unlocked the latch from inside and raised the window. He was flexible and muscular, lifting his body in and over with ease.

The house was dark, furniture filled. Toys left about in a disarray. His leather gloved finger traces over a counter and raises it to the dim moonlight, dust. A sliver of disgust casts over him.

He wanders through various rooms, silver eyes listlessly wandering from framed photos to artworks and cultural artifacts.

Silently, he walks up the staircase, maneuvering over the creaky spots and halting at the top. Her bedroom, from the outside, points Eastward. That is where he goes.

Gripping the doorknob, Malachi inhales a low measured breath, smothering the slight heat that spreads through him knowing she lies on the other end.

He pushes it open and steps inside.

The door of the lighted bathroom stood ajar from the opposite end of her room. A skeleton glow came through the Venetian blind from the outside streetlights; these intercrossed rays penetrate the darkness of the bedroom and reveal the woman.

Clothed in nothing but an overgrown grey shirt, his Oliver lay on her side with her back to him, in the middle of the bed. her lightly veiled body and bare limbs formed a Z. She had put two pillows under her dark tousled head; a band of pale light crossed her top vertebrae.

Malachi's gloved hand lightly brushes over furniture- study table; science and zoology books, a guitar upright on the wall, no posters, no dolls. Stray jeans on the floor which he picks and neatly folds, setting it on the foot of her bed.

Next, he moves towards her drawers and gently pulls open the top.

He reaches in tentatively, brushing silk and cotton lingerie, and his eyes shut to the forbidden thoughts; visualizing Oliver with hallucination lucidity. He picks one blood red thong and carefully tucks it into his pocket.

Finally, his feet guide him towards the main object of curiosity, of want, of need.

"Oliver," his voice is a whisper, deep and soft as the hand that caresses her forehead, pushing back stray curls. She lays in crystal sleep, long dark lashes brushing the top of bronzed cheekbones, mouth slightly parted.

He crouches low, face level with the beauty, and traces her features- faded acne scars, thick dark eyebrows that curve along the start of her nose. So imperfect, he could do nothing but love her even more.

Malachi leans forward then, cold nose tips brushing, careful not to rouse her- his head tilts in the vaguest direction, allowing him access to her mouth. Her lips are soft and full, much like he thought it to be.

"Soon." He promises.
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