The Pervert

THE PERVERT

The open blinds provided an opportunity for his roving eyes. Like a
periscope, they swept back and forth cautiously and with salacious
concentration, hoping to see a woman, a girl, or perhaps their
undergarments strewn out on the bed. The pervert's heart pounded with
anticipation, for this is what he craved. Crouched outside the bedroom
window, he persisted as long as the porch light remained off, and the
cover of darkness remained his ally. Standing on his tiptoes, his eye
centered on a nightgown hanging in an open closet. His breathing became
rapid. His pulse beat hard in his throat. His knees began to tremble,
as he became more excited; his eyes started to burn in their sockets,
not daring to blink. He wondered if he would get lucky tonight and see
somebody put on the nightgown. He waited for a few minutes. Nothing.
The excitement of lust, now painfully acute was charging through him
like electricity. Every fiber in his body was burning with an
uncontrollable passion to feed his eyes, to see what is forbidden and
secret, to violate the security of one's privacy. The pervert's trophy
was the sight of the nightgown; captured and sealed in his memory bank.
Flushed with success, he moved around to the side of the house, to
another window. He crushed some of the newly planted ferns below the
window purposefully, for it also gave him a rush to know he was leaving
his signature of evidence behind. Standing flatfooted this time, for
the window was lower than the other, he was relieved to see a light was
on. On the dresser were an array of perfume bottles and some family
pictures, mostly of a woman holding a little baby. A large mirror with
a woman's necklace hung from a small hook, and the dresser drawer was
partially open. He strained hard to see what was in the drawer. He
imagined there were silk panties, bras, and slips, and nylons, though
he could not see them. He became excited again and this time felt
around the window frame to see if he could remove the screen. Quietly,
and with deviate concentration, he lifted and pulled it out of its'
track, without any effort at all. Closing the curtains just enough to
conceal himself, he watched and waited. It would have been easy to
enter into the room if he desired to, but he was content to just watch.
Removing the screen was his way of receiving an unadulterated path to
the eye, unencumbered by impediments. Seeing movement crossing a
hallway, he grew excited again and anticipation flooded through his
loins like searing, hot flashes. In walked a dark-haired young woman
with a laundry basket full of clothes. Dumping them on the bed, she
pulled from the pile a pink crocheted sweater with white-laced ruffles
on the sleeves, small enough for a doll to wear. The woman held it in
the palm of her hand for a moment, then softly caressed it with the tip
of her fingers. Abruptly, she lowered her head into the sweater and
began to weep. The floodgates of her grief opened upon the pink
sweater, until the weeping turned into sobbing, and the sobbing turned
into plaintive groaning. "Oh God, why did you have to take my baby? My
sweet, precious little girl. You were my life, pretty one. My darling
little Charlotte. Never again will I see your smile, nor hold you to my
breast. Oh, God why?"
Watching the woman grieve over her baby and then glancing at her
picture on the dresser, the pervert's eyes sank with pangs of guilt,
reminding him of his sordid, voyeuristic immersion into many of his
nighttime jaunts. He depended on his conscious detachment from his
victims, seeing them only as objects on a big screen, but the childless
and broken-hearted mother was even too much sadness for him to bear. He
pitied her terribly, and he abhorred himself for being an interloper to
her tragedy. The little pink sweater struck a contrite cord in his
heart, and shed a light upon his polluted soul. He was awakened
suddenly to his state of wretchedness, and wondered how he ever
descended into such an immoral cesspool. As the woman began to sob
again, the pervert closed the curtains, quietly replaced the screen,
straightened out the ferns, and covered his tracks. After shaking off
what seemed like a bad dream, he hurried home to his wife, and to kiss
his little girl goodnight.