Surface Tension

Part Six of The Madness Series

By: poyznelf

EMAIL: poisonelf@enter.net

 

I walk around the apartment that I rented.

Bare.

Drab.

Small.

It has one invaluable feature.

It overlooks the loft.

The place where the infidel and the toy reside.

I am paying a fortune for it.

Six hundred eighty five dollars per month. For a studio apartment with a small bathroom.

But priceless.

I pay the landlord. One year up front, in cash.

The name on the lease... Nancy Harrison.

I pay the electrician. In cash. Ten thousand dollars. For his silence and his skill.

He hooks up the equipment.

A transmitter.

A camera.

On this end.

A receiver.

A monitor.

On the other end. At my high priced penthouse flat in Seattle.

I watch.

*<><><><><><>*

As I ushered him through the door. I could feel the release of tension.

After two days in the hospital and a week in the nurturing care of that harridan, I was finally bringing him home. I watched as he circled the loft, touching and caressing simple objects.

He came back to me, and grabbing my hand, led me over to the couch, and pushed me down on it.

He sank down next to me.

And leaning over he placed his head over my heart.

"Home," he whispered.

I wrapped my arms around him and let the glow travel through my body.

Heart out.

"Home!" I agreed.

*<><><><><><>*

As days turned into weeks.

It rose.

Higher.

And higher.

I could feel it in the muscles that ran from his shoulders up his neck.

He wasn't talking very often.

Although to relax me. He would force himself.

It would be the right volume.

It would be the right timbre.

But yet I could feel the edge to it. The thread of something just not right.

*<><><><><><>*

I could feel the eyes watching.

I knew not from where.

I knew not who.

But I felt it just the same.

After being home for a couple of weeks, things started to make the watcher's presence known.

Only when Jim was gone.

Phones ringing.

Notes under doors.

Kids?

I think not.

Things missing from my room, or the loft in general.

Accusations flew between us.

"Sandburg, what did you do with my razor?"

"Jim, did you throw out my notes?"

Lots of "did you..., where is... have you seen's... thrown about.

Driving a wedge between us???

Trying to anyway.

TO PART SEVEN

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