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Tell me, Will.
What is your greatest fear?
Would you tell me if you knew? Or would you hide this from me as well, wondering what I would say? The words I would think but not write. The words you form in my voice to scold you.
Is it death, Will?
Are you afraid to die?
What awaits a man once the velvet curtains draw? I could speculate, although I think you wouldn't like my conclusion. When I mention death, I see that you struggle. Are you living every last breath over again in your mind?
No.
Eyes. They are particularly difficult for you. Such avoidance could be classified as phobic, but I am always reluctant to assign words to you.
You mentioned in the height of your distress that eyes pin you. What frightens you more? The distracting nature of the seat of consciousness, whites and imperfect irises? Or that you are vulnerable here, perfectly yourself, and someone might see you pass by?
There.
The thought alone begins your rumination. It sets your mind fountaining what-ifs and frightened do-nots, and I know that were you here, and had I asked, you would be halfheartedly meeting my eyes..
..to prove to me that you are not afraid.
When you are willing, your eyes are mirrors. I see my careful gaze reflected. Softer are your features, warping the expression just enough that most never notice. They see you where they ought to see themselves. This is how you slip along.
But you must know that I am familiar with my own eyes. I noticed long ago.
Unwilling, your eyes are made of the thinnest glass. Fragile light quivers there. Whether you are aware of it or not, I struggle not to catch you.
In the absence of respect, I might toy with the idea more. What you must understand is that I am a careful planner, William.
I might sit before you and spend our sessions envisioning; lulling you into quiet serenity - grasping you firmly, unexpectedly by the nape - chasing after that fragile light until, like a clumsy child, I crush it in my unyielding hands.
But I wonder as well, if you would not notice my absence from you. If you would see me sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase you call my eyes, plotting how best to ruin you.
Will.
I struggle to merge the media's Chesapeake Ripper with my perception of myself. I am not malicious to satisfy a fantasy of great power. If I wanted to, I could slip away on the next bus and plant myself elsewhere, never to kill again.
But I find myself loathing my freedom of late. Primordial urges awaken in me; protectiveness at the surface, but greed and jealousy just inches below. I would bury my fingers into your mind if I were able, and grow us together with one long taproot down your spine.
I wonder, would it frighten you? If I spoke those words calmly to you amidst the theories and psychology.
The private urge to shatter you. It is with me at all times.
I let pieces of myself slip when I am with you. Some I allow to drift away, such as these urges, and others I put on display for your pleasure.
Your fear smells like sweat and breath. You enjoy it when I chase you. When I am careful, when I cut off your greatest asset. You thrill inside when I give you no hints, no indication of my intent. When I lift my face off and show you the hole underneath.
But when our games are done, do you consider why it came effortlessly to me? Or are you much too busy wondering why it arouses you?
Will you admit it?
That this need to be locked in chase is for me.
That you must have glimpsed something I did not intend for you to see, and your mind has formed a pearl around it. A pearl which you have accepted as a new part of your Design.
Endless fascination.. I could sit for eternity with my thoughts of you and be entertained.
We will talk more in-depth about these things. I will cultivate your trust in me -- this I promise you.
One day you will tell me this, all of this, in so many words.
And I will smile, having already known.