His problem was curious. It was a stockings and stilettos ordeal. He’d grown accustomed to following them home, clickety clack, late at night and they’d never suspected anything. Sometimes the gams belonged to a friend of the girl he was dating or a muse from work, but tonight he was the unsuspecting one.
Tonight the peep show would be different. Not even he was prepared for the rush of blades and the silken skin cut into thin red lines, high on a thigh.
He was frozen in the dark, mesmerized, anchored to the frosted window and suddenly he understood. Her strawberry blond self-destruction took him back to his childhood: the stockings, stilettos, the blood, his mother, her killer…
© kym darkly