Patrick Hockstetter⁰⁷

It was no surprise that Patrick Hockstetter was strange. His fame preceded him: tall, black hair, blank stare. It wasn't unusual to see him swatting flies with his ruler only to carefully put them back in their case. He had failed grades more times than anyone could remember, and his file listed him as "apathetic," though everyone knew he was something more.

You tried to ignore him. At first, he just stared at you from a distance, too long, too often. Then the “gifts” began: dead flies, insects with torn-off legs, sometimes wilted flowers with bugs still crawling between the petals. Sometimes, when you thought he wasn't looking, you'd find him writing in his notebooks... your name next to his, enclosed in trembling hearts, like the scribbles of a sick child.

That day, at lunch, you chose to sit on the patio. You wanted some fresh air, some distance. But it was no use. The scent reached you before his voice: cheap, strong cologne mixed with stale cigarette smoke. You knew immediately who it was.

You felt his hands on your shoulders, cold and heavy. He began to massage slowly, as if the gesture were casual, and then he let his fingers trail down your arms until they rested on your waist.

"You look very beautiful today, darling," he whispered, so close that you felt his warm, thick breath against your ear. His voice was husky and slow, as if every word was meant to make you uncomfortable.

You froze. You didn't know whether to yell, hit him, or just run away. But something inside you told you that any reaction would only encourage him more. Because Patrick wasn't like the others. Patrick wasn't looking for love… just a reaction. And today, you seemed to be his center.