Night Stalker

Friday nights always smelled like cheap perfume and regret. I leaned against the brick wall outside The Neon Gash, a bar that reeked of desperation and vodka sodas. The bass from inside throbbed through the walls, syncopated with the twitch in my left eye. My camera hung heavy under my jacket, its weight familiar, comforting. Like a second dick.

I didn’t start this way. Not really.

Backstory? Fine. Let’s rip the bandage off.

Mom was a real piece of work. She was my stepmother but back then I didn't know that. To me, she was Mom. Liked to lock me in the closet when I was six for “acting up.” One night, she forgot. Three days. No food. Just her vodka bottles rolling under the door, her laugh slicing through the dark. When she finally let me out, she took a Polaroid of me pissing myself. “So you remember,” she said. I was eight.

Now I take my own fucking photos.

The bar door swung open, vomiting out a pack of girls in skirts shorter than their attention spans. My eyes locked on the blonde. White skirt, black boots, swaying like a sapling in a hurricane. Perfect. She stumbled away from her friends, waving off their slurred protests. “I’m fiiine, you guys!” Yeah. They always are.

I followed.

The city’s veins pulsed around us—neon signs, car horns, the wet smack of gum on pavement. She zigzagged down alleys, singing to herself, until her phone slipped from her grip. She fumbled for it, giggling at the screen. “Jus’… one sec, Mom…” Her voice slurred like a broken record.

I kept my distance, memorizing her rhythm. Left foot drag. Right shoulder dip. The way her skirt clung to her thighs when she leaned against a dumpster. She didn’t notice me. They never do. Not until it’s too late.