Predators Prey

I pace the floor, stare at the ceiling, crawl up the wall, consumed by this insatiable desire; a yearning so profound it eats at my very existence. I want to touch you but you seem so very out of touch. I realise sometimes everything goes a little hazy, but I swear I saw you at an ice cream parlour drinking a milk shake, cold and long. I smiled and waved because you looked so fine but your stare cut straight through me, eyes shaded behind those dark glasses you always wear, even on a dull winters day. Pushing through the market square I catch a glimpse as you turn the corner and stroll down my street, so distant and aloof. I send you my poetry, hang your pictures on my wall, watch those box sets night after night, drenched in the monochrome fog of the cathode rays. I speak to you in my dreams; write you endless letters proclaiming my undying devotion, yet still you choose to ignore me.

Mad, right? I bet you don’t even know my name – but I know yours. I know everything there is about you. Where you live, the way you take your coffee with half a teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk, how you sleep with the light on because you’re afraid of the dark. I’ve read every interview you’ve ever given, even the ones translated into different tongues. We have something, you and me. A spark. A bond. A connection. I see it in your eyes when you hold that gun so comfortably in your smooth, ageless hands, pointing that lethal weapon straight at my heart. Bull’s eye. Perfect shot. You secretly smile at me through the screen when nobody’s looking, flashing one of your many flirtatious glances my way. You want me. You need me. I know.

I love you, worship you, adore you. I need you more than you'll ever imagine. My Maxine. My Top Gun Girl. My Super 60's sensation. Mary Quant was quaint and Twig The Wonder Kid may have been the face that launched a thousand fads, but they could never hold a candle to you. The way you'd use those martial arts moves years before Bruce Lee, kitted out from head to toe in that black leather cat suit. I look at Diana Rigg and Marianne Faithful but all I see are pale imitations while you, my sweet angel, are the real deal. Sometimes I catch myself dreaming of you during quiet moments; times when those voices in my head subside and I can somehow begin to make sense of it all. The lady at the clinic says I must remember to forget, but that's easier said than done. You see, try as I might, I just can't burn you out of my mind. It may be fifty years since you fought crime every Friday, but for me it never ends. You have to believe me, my darling, when I tell you that you are my universe. My letters, my poetry, my soul. I offer them all in return for your undying devotion. So why do you spurn them, choosing instead to ignore my very existence?

Series four, episode two – you cried yourself to sleep ‘cause he was discovered cheating on a woman like you. I felt your anguish, your pain, your sadness. Rewinding that moment over and over again, I witnessed your vulnerability. From that day onwards, I made a promise to protect you, to keep you safe, to look out for you. That’s all I’m doing now, so why do you turn my adoration away like it’s some sort of filthy proposal? Can’t you see I’m not like the rest? I won’t hurt you like he did. The hours I spent slaving over thousands of letters that have been so arrogantly dismissed now seem so worthless. Are you afraid of me? All I want is a chance and still you refuse me of that. Am I ugly? Is that it? I can change. I will change. I love you, Maxine and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Please, please. Just give me the time to change your mind. I want you to listen. I need you to listen.

I know it sounds weird, but I have to freeze-frame you. Series Five, Episode Eight. That shot of you spread out on the bed, the Pierre Cardin dress hiked high above your knees. Red for love. Red for lust. Red for HOT! I stare at you on my thirty-two inch plasma screen – the one I fixed to my bedroom wall just for you. I gaze longingly at your image; deconstruct you piece by piece, then re-assemble you part by part. I objectify, falling deeper and deeper into the well of fixation, until your body rips into my neural pathways, like hikers treading tracks through a wood, making them wider and wider, creating an automatic pathway through which you are routed. See what you have done to me? By rejecting my advances you have unknowingly created a neurological circuit that has imprisoned my ability to see you in God’s image. You are bad, and you know what happens to bad girls, don’t you? Every night I lie there in the darkness, staring at you across the empty room. In my head you come to me like the gutter goddess you are – dirty, foul, begging to be punished. I close my eyes and do despicable things to you; acts designed to humiliate and degrade – just like the ones I see on those sites that keep sending me messages and taking my money. The ones that tell me what to do. But the relief I experience is only transient. There has to be more. I know what I have to do.

People like you deserve to be punished. What did I ever do apart from offer the gift of my love? You’re meant to be a woman of the law. Kind, good, respectable. I idolise you and for what? You can’t even be bothered to reply to my lousy letters. The voices are telling me to do this; they tell me that you don’t want me, don’t need me. Is that true? Look at me. Look at what you’ve done. I realise I’m young, but I’m old enough to pull a trigger. Besides - you’ve aged me beyond my seventeen years. You’re the reason I’m in this state. I was blinded by your angelic features, the innocence in your face, the love embedded in your eyes. You disgust me. Ignorant. Arrogant. Addictive. You’re like heroin – you had me hooked from the start. Now I’m a junkie, totally dependent on you for my daily fix. I can’t give you up. I won’t give you up. We always find a way to get our hands on the things we need, even if blood has to be shed in the process. You understand why I have to do this, right? If only you’d have listened. I’m not afraid, Maxine my love. But maybe this time you should be…