He was a demon, and he truly thought he loved me.

He was tall, and sharp, like the edge of a beautiful knife. His hair was long and his eyes were yellow and not quite human. Some may have found him beautiful, I suppose. In a scary, dangerous way, maybe. I never did.

He smelled like cigarette smoke and rose oil, thick jasmine perfume and something stronger. He followed me, sometimes. I would see him in the background, lurking around a corner. He scared me. I thought he would kill me if I didn't give him what he wanted, but I'd rather die than give in to him.

I closed my shades tightly at night. I locked my door, but I was afraid he could get in. I couldn't sleep at night: a chorus of why mes echoing through my brain. I was nothing special: short even when not next to him, average appearance, I think. My hair was a reddish brown and there was nothing particularly interesting about me.

I told my friends, but they didn't quite believe me. How could they? I sounded crazy. Still, I never stayed too long in a classroom once the class filed out, never stayed late in the hallways or went to the bathrooms during class. Because he was there. I knew it with a certainty that scared me. He was watching me. And for some reason, he liked what he saw. And he wanted it.

And I hated him. Four months passed, and everywhere I looked, him. One day, I was talking to my friend about him, and she was trying to persuade me that it was just my imagination. He crept up behind her and gave her bunny ears.

I screamed.

At that point, I screamed all the time. Whenever I actually fell asleep. Whenever anything jumped out at me, whenever anything happened. My mom got me a therapist named Helena, who was too sympathetic. She thought I was crazy. They all did.

And the texts. Always from different numbers, always saying similar things. I love you. I'm outside, luv. And whenever I tried to answer, things got worse.

I have time to spare. Want some?

Stop stalking me.

But I love you.

You don't even know me. And I hate you.

Please?

Fuck no. Get out of my life, you psychotic pervert.

He called me sometimes, too. But he never said anything. He just laughed.

I never turned around, those times. Because I could hear him laughing into the phone, just behind me.

I cried. I screamed. I reckoned with the gods. I wanted to kill him, but I didn't know how. He was going to be the death of me, though.

Helena diagnosed me, but I never bothered to remember it. She had me on pills my mom made sure I took for a few weeks before she forgot and I stopped. They made me feel slow and stupid, and he was always still there.

Please go away. You're ruining my life.

One day, my friend came into school wearing brand new jasmine perfume. I screamed when I smelled it, and leapt away.

I was always on my guard. But it wasn't enough. I had to face him head on someday, and I knew it.

All I needed was a blade.