Work of a Genius

What? Whispered the man, confused. The lights flickered off and on three times in a rapid succession.What the fuck? Asked the man quietly and suddenly realized that this might have been a request for him to turn his own lights on. With his gaze glued on the makeshift lightshow, he took a step to the right and blindly searched for a switch. A moment later his studio was bathed in the soft light of the nightstand lamp.

Kevin gave him thumbs up and the man swallowed hard. He didn't like the idea of someone else observing him or even being aware of his existence. Thumbs up were replaced by a single index finger in the air, as if to say Hold on. Kevin stepped back and with an elegant movement like the one usually reserved for the beautiful girl advertising a flashy car gestured to the bed, where the woman lay, obviously passed out or sleeping.

What the fuck, man? What? The man was now getting frustratingly annoyed and slightly frightened. He put his hands on his hips, displaying a welcoming, yet stand-offish pose. Nothing similar has ever happened before and for all the obvious reasons people jealously guarded their privacy, not displayed their actions to the world of peeping Toms.

What? Is she hurt? Do you need help? The man thought of opening the window and shouting out to inquire whether there was something he was asked to do. Instead, he simply waved his arm in the air as if to show the other man that he was annoyed with this unwelcome intrusion into his privacy. His mind and heart raced in synchronicity of panic. Yet again, the notion of knowing what was to follow struck him and he dismissed it. His vivid imagination had always gotten the better of him, or so he had been told since he was a child. It certainly served him well when painting and sculpting, but in other instances, it could make him paranoid and unbearably agitated, even to his own self.

Still looking at the man, Kevin walked towards the bed, grabbed the woman's arm, raised it high and then allowed it to fall.She's obviously unconscious, or she would have stirred, thought the man. He fidgeted in the window, his feet now blocks of ice.

Kevin sat on the bed and reached for the hem of the woman's short black skirt. Very slowly, he began pulling it higher up her legs, disclosing the little skin that was hidden to the world. The man in the window frowned and cursed quietly. The hand, which held onto the skirt, now reached the woman's crotch, it pulled at the flimsy cloth with a firm tug and revealed a white pair of panties.

Oh man! He whispered. Despite the cold inside the studio he felt a twinge of heat in his face.What are you doing? He asked loudly as if he could be heard, fidgeting. He felt the first stirring in his loins, uncomfortable and yet welcome.You're wrong for that! He said quietly, uncertain whether he was talking to the man in the other building or chastising himself.

The man's object of vigilant observation was obviously becoming more excited by the second. The mini skirt safely pulled all the way up onto the woman's stomach and her panties clearly exposed, he turned his attention to the top, a short black turtleneck, woolen and thick, definitely out of place in comparison to the flimsy little skirt. She was wearing high boots that reached over the knees, clearly a tool of provocation.It would have been sexy if she wasn't unconscious, ran through the man's mind.

Instead of struggling with the top, Kevin now reached inside the antique-looking nightstand next to the bed and brought out a huge pair of scissors; quite like the ones the man remembered his tailor would use when cutting the cloth for his utterly despicable suits when he was a child.

If you cut that thing up, you'll be in trouble, buddy!

Kevin held the scissors high up in the air as if to add to the already dramatic atmosphere and snipped them a few times, clearly showing them off and then turned back to his sleeping victim. The man in the window could almost hear the unmistakable husk husk of the material being cut. The thought of the dryness of the wool against which the scissors worked made the man shiver. It would be the same if he had put a homemade woolen sweater between his teeth, or touched nylon stockings, or peach skin dress. The feel of some would leave him shuddering uncontrollably, swearing to himself he'd never touch them again.

The sweater was now ruined. Halved from the bottom hem all the way up through the collar. Kevin carefully spread what was left of the it as if opening a present, his smile appearance of smugness to the man in the window, who took a step backwards as he noticed that he was being grinned at.

Kevin's hand let go of the sweater and slipped inside the white bra that obviously matched the panties, cupping the breast and in the man's mind squeezing it, with more force than something so delicate should be handled.

The man felt the stirring in his pants hardening, the discomfort of the first arousal becoming entrapped inside his tight jeans. He waited for Kevin to look away and what he hoped was discreetly, undid his zipper and a stud button, sighing in relief. He told himself it would only be to give himself some space, it wouldn't be the beginning of the perverse pleasure over the woman's obvious misfortune.

He closed his eyes and shook his head in denial as the scissors continued their destructive deed, cutting through the narrow strip connecting the bra cups, which jumped apart as if in fear and one fell off the woman's breast, revealing milky white mound, with a dark circle in the center of it, its nipple brown and erect, saluting the prying eyes.

The scissors snipped the empty air again and Kevin looked towards the man, then back to the woman and positioned the wide open blades against her breast, slowly bringing them together, his face turning away from her again, and his eyes seeking the man in the window.

No! The man ran his hands over his face, noticing the sweat on his forehead despite the cold.Stop. Stop! He said but that was all he could do. He stood watching. His mind raced, keeping the pace with his heart.Stop it, man!

The blades were coming together, slowly but without a pause. They caught the nipple in their grip and began to squeeze. The woman hasn't stirred since the moment the shades went up to reveal the interior of someone's perversion.

The man knew he wasn't really seeing everything in as great of a detail as he thought he was. He knew what was going on, the rest was his imagination. He looked around, his arms waving in the air as if he was getting ready to take off.

Binoculars! He had an ancient pair that his father had given him years ago for bird watching and he used it when traveling Europe, closely inspecting the friezes of the highest of church towers and cathedrals, which the farthest from one's eye seemed to be the most breathtaking. It was as if the artists were jealously hiding the beauty, and to see it, one had to apply oneself and search for it.

With his eye still on the window of the other building, he browsed through the nightstand, furiously dragging the books out of the drawer and throwing them in a pile on the floor. He bent down for a quick and more diligent search, now wildly digging through the small cabinet, which seemed to hold more junk than physically possible, at the same time losing the sight of his alarming fascination.

He couldn't have been out of his visible spot in the window for more then ten, perhaps fifteen seconds when, frustratingly unable to find the binoculars he straightened and to his surprise and great disappointment the shades in the other apartment were drawn shut. It appeared some of the lights in the apartment were off, but there was still enough illumination that he could tell Kevin was not done for the night, whatever he was doing.

With the woman out of his sight, panic struck him and he fidgeted nervously, unable to understand why he had stood in the window observing for as long as he did. He was completely transfixed with the man's boldness and his own anticipation of the ultimate conquest or betrayal. The reality seemed to explode into his consciousness and he felt as if he had been dropped into a barrel of cold water, having slowly roasted his mind on the fatal heat of obscenity. He felt his erection soften and a pang of guilt jerked him out of the state of fascination.

I should call the cops! And tell them what? Someone in the other building is getting ready to cut off a woman's nipple? They would laugh at him. Probably call him a nut. Maybe not, but the fact that he stood in the window for a while without calling for help now scared him off correcting his own mistake. Besides, for all he knew the guy in the other apartment was playing a trick on him. The woman might have been in on it, too. People were twisted like that. A sick sense of humor in the big city where everyone is anonymous to everyone else, no matter how familiar and acquainted they had become and they play on the gullibility of lonely souls who have nothing better to do but spy on the little privacy that's left.

He loved the horror and the gruesome. The movies - good and bad - made for a huge selection in his private library, so did the books. He owned painted and sketched works of other artists, as well as produced his own. His computer hard drive held thousands of autopsy, suicide, accident and murder photos from the police files, leaked to the public and internet by some sick and conscience free weirdo trying to earn a quick buck. He was looking for the creepy, odd and nauseously disgusting. Whenever he encountered it in real life however, he became frightened by it. Fascinated, yes... also terrified of the possibility that it might extend its bony fingers and caress his face, leaving a mark that would never go away. He hoped he'd be one of those lucky people who die peacefully in their sleep. He didn't want to make just another statistic in the crime files.

The man remained in the window for a few minutes longer, hoping against hope that the blinds would pop back up again and he could either puzzle out what was really taking place, or as he didn't even want to admit to himself, continue with the morbid fascination over the cat and mouse game. He thought of raising the window and shouting out, attracting the attention of the other guy, but changed his mind. For one, it was an icy cold April night. The winter was reluctant to let go, a certain sign that the summer will take its vengeance afterwards. Somebody would have probably called the cops on him if he were to yell out into the night like a madman.

His feet were freezing cold and he needed to piss, but was reluctant to leave the window and the opportunity of catching another glimpse of the woman, of whom he was certain, was in trouble and yet he was not convinced enough to do anything about it.

And so, he did nothing. He put on an old pair of woolen socks and went to the bathroom. He took a leak in the dark, the maddening familiarity of the place enabling him to move about the blackness like a blind man without bumping into things, not missing his target. When finished, he paused as if having a second thought and flipped on the light switch. The radiance of the dying bulb bathed the small bathroom in shimmering light and he returned to the sink, placed his heavy hands on the white, spidery-cracked ceramic and leaned towards the mirror.

The face that looked back at him was not what he had hoped for. Months of realization that he would have to pull his act together and start taking care of himself financially instead of letting it all be handled by Isabella have ground worry lines into his somewhat goofy-looking visage, as he had called it playfully. Now that she had finally left, he had only days before the bills began piling up and the money was painfully scarce. Two weeks of relief that he was on his own again had obviously not done him much good as he had thought it would have. He worried about her, she hadn't called since the day she had left and he had no idea where she went. He hated the realization that he cared for her more than he was willing to admit. Sleepless nights and broken daytime naps took a toll on him.

The little scene that had just played out in front of his eyes seemed to have added to his already restless mind. The possibilities of it were numerous and he was torn between the conclusion of fatality and practical joke. He hated being made a fool of, and yet he feared that was not what the other man's intent was. If he didn't call the police this very instant, he would become an accomplice should something tragic truly take place. He opened the faucet and splashed some cold water on his face, his skin seemingly paper dry. His greasy hair was a too long, strand of it hanging over his eyes, which bloodshot appeared haunted.

Fuck me, he whispered, his eyes searching the bathroom behind him through the mirror.Fuck me for being such an idiot. He said again.And a coward.

He turned the water off, killed the light and with a gait that might have belonged to a much older man shuffled his way to bed. Before crawling inside the cold covers he glimpsed through the window one more time, satisfied and disappointed that no further development in the other building was visible.

*

That was months ago, the man remembered, still waiting for the blinds to be raised and the performance to begin. He was on his last cigarette and the heat was becoming unbearable. He wondered who the woman Kevin was entertaining tonight was. That first girl introduced to him was the most important of all. At least on the social ladder, which seemed to be so very essential to certain people. Media fed off the nerve-wracking uncertainty and the possibility of the ultimate conclusion with an appetite of a starving dog.

As he woke up late that morning a few months ago, it was almost midday and the first thing he did was step to the window and look out, only to disappointingly realize that the blinds were still drawn. The blue mustang was nowhere in sight. He slept tight that night, better than he had in months.

Throughout the day, while he attempted to work on his painting, he kept looking out the window, and listening for the sounds of slamming car doors, hoping the other man would return. The first inclination that something went horribly wrong after all came a few days later, when for whatever reason he lifted his head and looked at the television. It was tuned to one of the local news channels with the sound down. The full screen picture of the blonde woman caught his attention. She seemed familiar somehow. The realization that she resembled the woman from the night of his unsettling encounter with the neighbor, even though it had happened too far for him to be certain of anything unnerved him. His stomach contracted and with a trembling hand he reached for the remote and pressed the mute button, allowing the words of the anchorwoman to dance inside his studio.

If you have any information on whereabouts of Miss Ludlow, please call the number on the screen or the nearest police station.

The news switched to another topic and in panic the man pressed the buttons on the remote, accidentally turning the television set off.Fuck! He cursed loudly and searched for the button with which to correct his mistake. He browsed through the channels, finally spotting the familiar picture of the blonde again.

She was not quite beautiful, her nose was slightly too big and her eyes too far apart. She had long, silky, probably bleached hair, falling over her shoulders and covering most of her back. The picture was of her sideways, having turned her head to look into the camera, holding a litter of puppies in her arms, smiling. She looked athletic and attractive and oh, so very young. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, the painter estimated. Kelly Ludlow, according to the disembodied voice of the anchorwoman, was the youngest daughter of a high-profile heart surgeon, missing since Saturday night, and the fact that the police was searching for her frantically proved that they were taking her disappearance very seriously.

The man wondered to the window and looked out. The blinds in the other apartment were down. There was no sign of life there since the night almost a week ago. He wondered if the woman was still inside the building. Maybe unconscious, or awake and tied down to the bed, desperately hoping someone would come to her rescue. The thought that he might still save her if she truly was in the apartment never entered his mind.

His attention was again drawn to the television screen with the picture of the woman still prominent. As if in a haze, he sensed more than heard the rest of the report.This is the fourth disappearance of a young woman on the North Side of Chicago since March. Last week, the police had made a gruesome discovery of a mutilated woman's body, which after the forensic examination was proven to be that of the first missing victim, Elizabeth Lopez and the police fears the disappearances are connected. A warning is issued to all...

Pieces began falling into place now. The man realized this was not Kevin's first victim. That must have been the reason why he looked so smooth and comfortable in his performance. He had done it before, probably in the very apartment across the street. The concern over a woman turned into fear for himself. Why would he want an audience? A witness, no less.

The photographs of three other women flashed on the screen; all were young, two of them beautiful, the third one a plain looking girl-next-door. The man pictured Kevin as a collector of aesthetical beauty, whether it was regarding women or anything else. His clothes were impeccable, his apartment from what the man could observe through the window was tastily furnished, and everything in it seemed to be ship shape. Yet, he could imagine Kevin's sense of triumph when he showed interest in the ugly duckling and her disbelief over the handsome man's interest. She might have been the easiest prey of them all.

About a week later, the body of Kelly Ludlow was found and described as mutilated and despite the bitter cold severely decomposed. It was found by a dog walker in one of the Forest Preserves on the northwest edge of the city. Dental records were used for identification. Of course, no details on mutilations were disclosed to the public, feeding the insatiable speculations, gruesome stories popping up in the newspapers, one more unbelievable than another. He ignored most of them.

An unsettling calm came over the man. The girl was dead. Obviously killed by the hand of his neighbor, so close to him, practically in front of his eyes. He might have even breathed in the alcoholic sourness of her last exhale as he observed what turned out to be the last hours if not minutes of her life. And yet, no police cars came bailing down the narrow street with their sirens howling. No detectives were knocking on people's doors and making inquires. Most importantly, nobody suspected that he was involved, no matter how trivially. He certainly felt responsible in a way.

The day after the body was discovered, the man was startled from his work by the swishing sound of paper scraping against the wooden floor and to his astonishment found an envelope had been pushed under his front door. Carefully as if expecting a blow on the head he peeped into the dark corridor beyond his studio and found it deserted. He hurried to the window and saw Kevin had just exited his building, crossed the street and drove off in his car without as much as another glance back.

With trembling hands, the man picked up the envelope. His name, John, was written in bold, beautiful writing in red ink, or at least he hoped to God that it really was ink. With his heart racing he tore the envelope and pulled out a carefully folded sheet of cream-colored stationary. Knowing his name wasn't that much of a surprise; after all, it was on a mailbox.