6.
©2036 YORKE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT REPORT EVIDENCE REQUEST 03.13.36 (FULFILLED)REDACTED FOR PUBLIC USE] ORIGINAL COPY [SIC] W/ TYPOS & FORMATTING
THE HOUSE OF DELPHINE AMÁRO
111 TRISTE LE-ROY, APT B
LOS VALLES, NV 890081 [RDPU (💮]
When I was young I used to dream all night long about having a stalker. I wished for it so badly. I'd roll around on my bed, in my room, headphones on, and dream that someone might be obsessed with me. I liked that there was something forbidden about it, that stalking was wrong. I told myself with earnest passion that if I was ever lucky enough to have a stalker I would confront the synthesis head on – the stalker, being wrong, committing a crime, would find in me the perfect response, their ideal prey.
I listened to doo wop songs, that was my favourite music back then, doo wop and rave music or what they called freestyle music or nightcore or happy hardcore. The singers in these songs were the only ones who knew what I was talking about, their lyrics the only words that could come close to describing how I felt.
That endless need to be in love.
It wasn’t even about it actually happening. It definitely wasn’t about fucking. It was some kind of oblivion I wanted, but not a black oblivion, not a void, not a nothingness. It was a pink haze I’d enter where existence would just……… vanish …… and all my dreams would instantly come true.
These feelings were totally real – more real than my days walking around in real life.
They had tastes and smells, very specific ones – like rootbeer and Halloween at night and sugar from candy skulls and cherry cola. The smell of fall moving into Winter. Frost blowing off the trees at night.
I made myself ghastly in those days. I did it on purpose because it was my attempt to personify how I felt inside. Id wear necklaces and paint my nails different colours and wear theatrical clothing and everyone took it like it was an insult aimed personally at them.
I never understood it, why they felt that way, why none of them even tried to meet me somewhere in the middle, not 50/50, I wouldn’t ask of them that much, but rather somewhere around 70/30, or 75/25 even. But no. They wouldn’t budge, not an inch. And even if they had they still wouldn’t understand. They would never understand my mindset, or where I was coming from, not at all. They didn’t get why I wanted to be sad, how good it felt, to want something impossible so bad, but my stalker would.
When the years passed and no one had thrown rocks at my window at night or sent me anonymous
letters or called and breathed into the phone in the witching hours while everyone else was asleep,
when no sign of a stalker emerged I began to despair – even though I kept getting this very intense
feeling when I walked home in the evenings, I had this anticipatory feeling always within me, walking beside me as it were on the sidewalk, sometimes hand in hand with me, the feeling, like
something was going to happen, I just knew it, anytime now the letter would arrive, the face, would
be seen in the windowpane, dark in the glass. It was always a special time when I’d feel this way, and the sky always had that particular quality about it, a colour, that infected the entire mood and
atmosphere with its vital energy, frightening and beautiful, permeating all throughout the air its invigorating and uncanny vibrations, totally igniting my adrenaline all by itself, goosebumps time, when the smouldering glow that lived behind the trees and that turned the branches black and the sky to glowing fire would rage in its delirious freedom undaunted, nothing on earth or in the heavens out of its domain and all the stronger for it.
and of course at these moments people would be having great fires in their fireplaces, the smoke could be seen in the air, great black clouds of it, or they’d be in their backyards cooking meat in mass quantities over charcoal grills, and the savour of charred flesh would permeate the air. The smell had colour too, it was smoky, like burnt bark, cinders flaring, black & ash – that smell and the special vermillion color of those autumn nights was everything to me.
I would get home and my mom would ask whys that smile on your face? and it was always strange to me, why she’d ask, but I'd have to think about it and I’d realize that I was smiling for something that hadn’t happened yet. That’s how sure I was that it would come. Night after night that autumn I would arrive back at my house to find nothing, no mail, no news, no artifacts left at my door, and I’d sit and look out the window and ask. I’d ask the horizon why it was taunting me. It became clear that I would have to become what I was searching for.
So I became a stalker.
[REQUEST STAMPED 3/13/36]
