Page 17 of Desperate People

Because I found them.

Cracked her security like a hot knife through butter.

She should've known better.

And once the door cracked open, I didn’t hesitate.

I walked straight through.

Emails. DMs. Posts. Comments.

I read every single one.

The sweet ones.

The fake-nice ones.

The disgusting jokes pretending to be flattery.

And then the rot.

The darkness.

The freaks who think they have a right to her.

They send her things.

Say things that make my skin crawl and my knuckles itch.

Dreams, they call them.

Fantasies.

They don’t know I’m watching.

They don’t know I’m there—behind the screen, behind the wall, behind the curtain.

I delete the dick pics.

Block the fuckwads and the bored losers.

But the dangerous ones?

I track them.

IP addresses. Phone numbers. Locations.

And sometimes—if they’re local—I stop by.

Just for a chat.

No violence.

Not unless I have to.

But I make it clear.

Crystal fucking clear.

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