Primed for Sin

Arianna

I loved the quiet of my town.

Nestled between rolling hills and the sleepy expanse of Lake Mist in Brookville of Indiana, it was a place where time seemed to stand still. The coffee shop on the corner, with its faded blue awning, was my sanctuary, where I spent countless afternoons lost in books, sipping steaming mugs of caramel macchiatos.

In the bright sunny morning, entering the bookstore I adored for its cozy atmospheric feel with the smell of books where you can find anything of your heart’s desire, I was browsing the latest romance books by the shelf where the seams showed several names in several fonts and each in every color, and edition.

With my fingers brushing the edges, my search stopped at the one in dark red with the name ‘Crimson Thorns’ by V.R. Taurean. It was my favorite author.

The excitement stuck in my throat when I pulled it out of the shelf, taking the book into my hands gently.

They called him a purveyor of shadows, a weaver of twisted tales. His love stories, they said, were not for the faint of heart. Dark tendrils of eroticism coiled around sinister hearts, and horror pulsed beneath the surface of his words. The world recoiled, branded him a psychopath, a confessor spilling his twisted soul onto the page. Folks painted him as a creature of midnight, seeking an echo in the darkness, a kindred spirit in the abyss.

And perhaps they weren’t entirely wrong. There was a thrilling tremor of danger laced within his prose, a seductive dance with the forbidden. Yet, amidst the screams and shadows, I heard a different rhythm. I felt a tremor not of malice, but of something achingly human.

It was wrong, the people said. To linger in his labyrinthine narratives was to court madness, to stain oneself with his darkness. Society, with its neatly packaged norms and sunshine smiles, demanded conformity. “Be normal,” it screamed, “Act normal,” it insisted. But their normal felt like a stifling cage, painted in pastel hues that blinded me to the vibrant spectrum of the human heart.

Drawn by an invisible thread, I ventured into his world. Deeper I plunged, past the grotesque beauty, past the thrill of the taboo. And there, shimmering beneath the layers of calculated shock and sinful imagery, I found it. Loneliness. Raw and exposed, it pulsed like a wounded heart at the core of his creations.

He wasn’t a monster reveling in depravity. He was a soul adrift, using darkness as a shield, as a desperate cry echoing in the void.

His sinister tales weren’t expressions of pure evil, but rather distorted reflections of a profound isolation. And in that chilling revelation, a strange fondness bloomed within me. For in his shadows, I saw a flicker of my own unspoken truths, a shared language whispered from the fringes of normalcy. It was a dangerous kinship, perhaps. But in the echoing chambers of loneliness, even the whispers from the abyss can sound like a welcome song.

My journey began in hues of vibrant ambition. A blank canvas, a palette brimming with life’s brightest whispers – that was my freelance art career in its nascent bloom. Colors danced from my brushes, tales unfolded in swirling strokes of cerulean skies and fiery sunsets. My little home studio, nestled snugly within my two-room apartment, was a sanctuary of light, a testament to the joy I found in creation.

Then, the shadows began to creep in. It started subtly, a darkening of the edges, a muted tone slipping into my once effervescent world. His words were the catalyst. I stumbled upon his books quite by chance, a serendipitous digital whisper in the vast library of the internet. And with each turned page, my vibrant canvas bled into deeper, more melancholic shades. His narratives, woven with threads of pain and resilience, resonated within a chord I hadn’t known existed. I began to paint his prose.

Each word, each sentence, was transformed into lines and shapes under my hand. His desolate landscapes, his characters wrestling with inner demons, materialized before me in charcoal and ink. My studio, once a haven of light, became a gallery of darkness. Blacks, grays, and bruised purples dominated. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of unspoken sorrows. The darkness, born from his words, seeped from the canvases, swallowing my small space and, perhaps, a part of me too.

The silence in my apartment became a constant companion, echoing the vast emptiness I felt growing within. A hollow space opened in my chest, a void yearning to be filled, yet I couldn’t name its shape, its essence. What was missing? Was it a connection to the source of this consuming darkness? An answer, perhaps, to the questions that now haunted my waking and dreaming hours? The insistent pull was to understand, to see the face behind the words that had so profoundly altered my artistic landscape.

I needed to meet him. The thought blossomed, a quiet hope in the shadowed corners of my mind. Perhaps, knowing the visage behind the ink, meeting the eyes that birthed these tales of despair and fragile hope, would somehow ease the hollowness, illuminate the shadows that now clung to my soul. I envisioned a conversation, a sharing of artistic spirits, a moment that could perhaps recalibrate my compass, steering me back towards the light, or at least helping me navigate the unfamiliar terrain of the dark.

But he was a phantom in the digital world, a literary enigma shrouded in mystery. For a bestselling author, his presence was remarkably absent. No curated Instagram feeds, no witty Twitter pronouncements, no fleeting glimpses into his personal life. Only a stark, private page existed, a virtual storefront offering his paperbacks, his Kindle whispers, allowing readers access to his worlds, anywhere they might be. Yet, the man himself remained elusive.

The single image adorning his profile, mirrored on the back covers of his books, was a tantalizing tease. A man cloaked in a black hoodie, anonymity drawn tight around him. A mask, a mischievous half-joker grin crafted onto its surface, concealed the lower half of his face, adding another layer to the mystique. He was a riddle wrapped in an enigma, appealing to the human thirst for the unknown. And undeniably, yes, he was mysterious enough to ignite a spark of curiosity, especially in a woman’s heart, a whisper of wonder about the secrets hidden beneath the mask.

But it wasn’t the mask that truly captivated. It was the eyes.

Golden orbs, they were, luminous and arresting, yet flecked with swirling darkness, like galaxies collapsing into themselves. To look into them, even in a still photograph, was to be drawn into a whirlpool. A gaze that seemed to pull you into unfathomable depths, promising both brilliance and despair in equal measure. You sank willingly, further and further, drowning in the visible pain, in the palpable solitude emanating from those golden depths. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much, felt too deeply, a soul weary from the judgments of a world that often forgets the fragile humanity within those who appear broken.

A profound sadness washed over me as I gazed at those eyes, a sorrow that was almost unbearable. I wished, with a fierce intensity, that I could somehow reach through the digital veil, through the layers of mystery and solitude, and offer a flicker of light. I longed to help him find a semblance of happiness, even within the void of emptiness that seemed to haunt him. But he was an island, shrouded in mist, intentionally unreachable. And I, standing on the shore of my own shadowed art, could only watch, a silent observer, filled with a helpless empathy for the enigmatic soul behind the words that had painted my world in shades of beautiful, aching darkness.

Sighing, my eyes traced the rich font of his cover name, slightly smiling in happiness that I found the latest edition since I still hadn’t gotten it from the moment it was published.

The sound of my phone’s text message notification tone pulled me back from the trance I was in. Putting the book between my armpit to hold it in place, I grab the phone from my bag to see who messaged me.

I don’t recognize the number at first when I open the message app, but my heart stops when I read the words on my screen.

Unknown: I love your beautiful, silky hair. I wish I could wrap them around my fist when you take my cock inside your pretty little throat.

My hands shake when I reread the words three more times so I can process their meaning. Who could do this? With such vulgar words on top of that.

Is someone playing a prank on me to test me so they can see my reaction? Have I leaked my phone number somewhere on the web, and someone is trying to reach me this way? And importantly, why do those words spark something deep inside me?

I decide to text back.

Me: Who is this?

Still clutching the book under my arm, I wait for a response and look around. No one was in this section in the bookstore, so I was alone.

Almost dropping the phone from the incoming text message again, I open the text.

Unknown: You intrigue me. It’s been a while since something has drawn me in.

Did he really just say that? Does he consider me as it? Like an object?

Me: Do I know you?

Unknown: Not yet.

What? What does that even mean?

Me: Please stop texting me. Leave me alone.

Unknown: You also crave the darkness; that’s why your light beckons me closer to you. You can’t escape now since you’ve got my attention. ;)

A fucking winking emoji? Is he for real?

Me: I’m blocking you.

My breath rushed out when I made sure to stop him from texting me again. Feeling relieved, I put the phone back into my bag and put a smile on my face when I went to the cash register to buy my new favorite book.

I needed to forget it. I’m sure some of my friends are playing a big joke and laughing at me now.

The cash register lady smiled at me knowingly when she saw the book I selected when I put it on the desk in front of her,” One of those days?”

My cheeks heated,” Wanted to try something new,” she didn’t need to know that I’m obsessed with the books which are written by V.R. Taurean. It brought all my dark fantasies to life, but it was my only secret from everyone.

“Sure thing, honey. We crave that danger sometimes,” she winked at me as she scanned the book.

Cheeks red like strawberries, I imagine, I couldn’t be more embarrassed when I waited for her to show me the bill. Once I paid, she gifted me the paper bag with it, and as I took it, I felt my phone vibrating in my bag again.

Assuming it’s someone from my family or a friend who probably wants to apologize for playing me from previous creepy texts, I smile at the cash register lady with an excuse once I step away from the cash zone to let another customer buy their things.

Retrieving the phone, my assumption was completely wrong when I noticed the message coming from the same number as before.

This time it was a picture with a text below it.

Unknown: Keep playing games with me, Arianna. I can play along, but you know that I will always win.

How? The picture was taken when I came into the bookstore and looked for books, still with my Starbucks drink in my hand.

Trying to calm my breathing, I realize that I really am in danger. Someone is stalking me, taking photos, and texting me with vulgar messages, but how could he have taken the picture from that angle if there was no one near me the whole time I was there? I felt like losing my mind.

Feeling that someone is watching me, my unfocused gaze looks all around, but I don’t see anyone suspicious, only two customers in the bookstore looking for some books, but they looked harmless.

An old lady with glasses was trying to read the book she was holding as she squinted her eyes in concentration. The other one was a young woman looking for author merch products, dusting the water bottle she was holding, and of course, the cash lady who looked up at me when she realized that I was still in the store.

Her eyebrows furrowed,” Are you okay, dear? You look shaken.”

Tightening my grip on the phone, I seem to struggle for air, not knowing how to reply, so with a tight smile, I just exit the bookstore before I can faint.

Staggering in my steps on the sidewalk, I rest my body against the wall of some other building, my legs still shaky from the walk.

My brain couldn’t function properly as I stared at the people walking by and looking at me like I was some druggy with judging eyes on me. My body can’t even jump from the sound anymore when the next message comes through.

I just numbly open to read it.

It’s another picture of me.

Unknown: You look beautiful when you’re unaware.

It was in the coffee shop where I stopped earlier today before I got another one from Starbucks.

Oh my god.

It felt like the world was collapsing beneath me, the city sounds echoing in my ears like someone had stuck a cotton candy in them.

I typed before I could help myself.

Me: How did you unblock yourself? 

Unknown: I’m always a step ahead, baby.

Biting my lip, I tasted blood on my tongue.

Me: How did you take the pictures? No one was near me if I remember correctly.

I needed to be calm. I couldn’t panic under these circumstances because I needed information before I went to the police. There’s no way he will keep stalking me if he is in jail.

Unknown: So many questions, Ari. Be a good girl and I might be generous to share ;)

Me: Fuck off!

I was done with this bullshit.

Still looking around the street, I didn’t see anyone staring at me like they would be my stalker, so I returned my gaze back to the phone screen when three dots appeared to reveal another picture.

The photo is of my apartment building, with an arrow pointing to my window.

Feeling tears in my eyes, I furiously type back, knowing this psycho has been stalking long enough to know where my apartment building is located.

Me: That’s it. I’m going to the cops. 

Maybe he will get scared and back off if I threaten him with the authorities involved. Taking a screenshot of the conversation with my stalker for evidence, I felt lighter to know that I had something against him.

Another text came.

Unknown: You’ll only make things worse for yourself. 

Unknown: Besides, what are you going to do? I haven’t broken any laws…yet. 

The last word hangs heavy in the air, a clear threat.

Me: You’re obviously stalking me and watching me. That’s harassment enough!

The stalker sends another photo, this one of me sitting at my desk, working on my laptop.

Unknown: Harassment? That’s cute. I call it affection. And I’ll keep showing you affection until you understand.

The photo is followed by a video, taken through my apartment window. With a drone, perhaps?

“Oh god,” my whisper was loud while my ears rang, not believing my eyes.

He had pictures of me in my own apartment. Those are taken from behind, and for me to be unaware of the camera? How could he do this? It was the only place where I felt safe. I felt like vomiting up my lunch.

Me: You’re sick!

Me: I’m going to the cops now, so you will rot in jail when they find you!

A final message comes through, this one more menacing.

Unknown: You’re not a victim, baby. I would never harm you, but if you disobey, there will be consequences, so think carefully before you make wrong decisions.

After a moment of tense silence, the unknown number disappears from my screen completely, and I blink in shock.