I flex my chest, watching the pectorals expand. I curl my right arm and flex the bicep. I straighten the arm, turn around, and flex the tricep. I study my back and shoulders, flexing the muscles under the flesh. I bend my knee slightly watching the gluteus and hamstring flex. I turn around again and flex the quadriceps.
I study my body in the mirror, looking for any flaw. To say mine is the perfect male human body would be an exaggeration. Perfection is impossible. I can only approach perfection, and everyday I get a bit closer.
I brush my fingers across my chest feeling the smooth skin for any hair stubble, but feel none. I slide my fingers down my stomach feeling the separation between each muscle in the abdominals. I turn to the side looking for an excess curvature in my spine.
I face the mirror, scrutinizing every square inch of my body. I disregard my known flaws such as the scars on my chest, knee, and arm. I approach the mirror and closely study my face. My teeth are straight and white. My face is shaved smooth. My hair has no gray and is not receding. My eyes are alert.
I step back and stand with my legs spread, my hands on my hips. My penis hangs low. The foreskin covers the head. My testicles are well formed and potent.
It is 2:50 a.m. It is time to dress and leave. I drive over an hour before reaching my destination.
I park my car in the parking lot of a small, quaint shopping district. I will walk from here. I carry my bag as I tread into the woods, watching for people that might see me. There is nobody. I didn't expect to see anybody. The walk back will be different.
I stride through the woods and then turn north approaching her house. Her house is one of a few expensive homes in this upper class neighborhood. Each home has a large plot, keeping them fairly well separated. My watch shows 4:23 a.m. as the time. I am on schedule.
I see her house ahead of me. I easily scale the tall, wood privacy fence. I stay in a crouch as my feet hit the ground inside her yard. I study the house for several minutes, searching for movement or lights, but the house is quiet. I press my body to the fence and walk to the southeast corner of the yard. Then, I follow the fence towards the house, my eyes watching the windows, my ears listening for any sound. I reach the northeast corner of the fence, directly behind the house. I will wait here. I sit behind a large tree to wait, my back supported by the fence.
I have several hours to wait and my mind drifts. I remember the layout of the house, picturing each room, each door, and each window. I have been in her house several times before. I have walked through each room, searched through every drawer, read every letter, and scanned every book. I know her well. I have watched her live her life for over six months now and I know that she will be a great mother for my child. She is intelligent. She is strong. She is beautiful. She is rich. She is lonely.
She is searching for something and I will be that something for her. I've seen it in her eyes. I've read it in her poetry. Her life has lost meaning. She blindly holds to her pitiful life, trying to find a reason to continue with each day. Her marriage has no love. Her kids barely talk to her. She is disillusioned with her comfortable family life. She tried to find meaning through her family, but didn't find it. That is why I have chosen her. Compared to most people she has actually evolved, and in time perhaps she will even understand.
The early morning sun has risen. I check my watch and the time is now 7:25 a.m. Her husband will be leaving for work soon. He, like most people, is a worthless human being. He doesn't even make use of the oxygen his body absorbs. To destroy such a being would be a privilege. He is like most people, scurrying about the face of the earth, oblivious, impotent, and disgusting. I am revolted by the thought of all of these people living next to me, walking beside me, breathing the same air. It is horrifying. I can barely keep myself from breaking into a violent rage when I am in public areas. I abhor their very existence. These weak-minded, weak-willed, frivolous, little beings living their drab little lives are so repulsive, so despicable, that I want only to annihilate them and rid my life of their hideous existence. They are born. They eat. They shit. They fuck. They breed. They die.
There are so few people whose lives are worth more than the few seconds of drunken ecstasy that was needed to create them. Those few great people who do understand rise to supremacy. That is only inevitable. One who truly understands life has a distinct advantage over the rabble of misguided sheep. Some people have this greatness in them, but don't realize it. She is one of them.
I hear the garage door open and peer between two wood slats. I see his silver Mercedes back out. He turns in the large parking area and drives down the long driveway on his way to work. He is on time. He always is. I suspect he can't wait to get away from his family, even if he is only going to work. Perhaps he will meet his mistress for a lunchtime rendezvous.
She will be leaving in ten minutes to take the two children to the private school. She could be such a remarkable woman, but has allowed herself to be beaten into a role for which she is not designed. Her genetics have made her far superior to most human beings, but the world has done well to suppress her natural gifts. I hope that she does not allow the same to happen to our child.
I watch as the Lincoln Navigator maneuvers down the driveway. I wait three minutes to make sure she will not be returning for a forgotten lunch or book. Then, I stand. I stretch my cramped legs and back. I pull a pair of gloves from the bag and put them on. I grab my bag and walk to the screened porch. I reach my finger through the small hole I cut in the screen door six months ago. I flip the lock and quietly open the door. I close it behind me firmly and approach the door to the house. This door is the easiest to unlock. It does not have a deadbolt. I pick the door lock after a few seconds. I know that she never sets the alarm. Her husband sets it at night, but she never bothers with it during the day.
I step into the house slowly, listening for any movement. I hear nothing. She will not be back for twenty minutes, so I take my time walking to the master bedroom. I walk quietly through each room, making sure there is no one home. I admire her taste. She has decorated her home handsomely. It is no wonder her husband spends so little time here. This is her home. I walk through each room on the first level of the house and then walk up the front staircase.
Upstairs I inspect each room as well. When I am satisfied that the house is empty I walk into the master bedroom. She still sleeps here. Her husband sleeps in the bedroom next door. I slide my gloved hand along the frame of a large painting of her above the bureau. He had this done as a gift to her soon after they were married. She doesn't like it and leaves it up to remind herself of the loathing she feels for him. I admire the painter's interpretation of her face. He saw the intelligence and the will in her eyes. She looks out of the painting with a challenge to the viewer. Her chin is high. Her smile is almost a smirk. She is confident. She is beautiful. I brush my fingers across the painted cheek once and then turn away.
