Page 36 of Twisted in Obsession

I throw the pictures and what look like teeth into my nightstand drawer, shuddering when I put them away, refusing to look or think about it too hard. If I do, I'll spiral into the darkness that is eager to pull me under and hold me captive. It's the part of me I refuse to meet. The part of me I don't want to acknowledge. But it's that piece of me my monster created in the four months he held me in the dark and carved away at the pureness of my soul.

"Mom?" I call out again, listening for any sort of reply, but I'm greeted by silence.

I huff. Typical. She always does this. She's either hungry or is too high to get up and get what she needs, usually the bathroom or a shower, leaving the responsibility to me. If I don't get up and go assist her, then she'll possibly burn the house down or fall over and break an arm.

Worry gnaws at me, so I quickly dress in jeans and a baggy shirt and make my way down the narrow hall with shag green carpet and into the living room. The small TV plays softly in the background when I make my way toward my mom, resting on the oversized couch with worn-out leather and cigarette burns. Her head slumps forward, with her chin almost resting on her chest.

I stop right before her as she nods off with a cigarette in her mouth. Old puke rests on her chest and down the front of her, reeking of stomach acid. My stomach turns at the scent of her. Quickly, I cover my nose with my shirt, blocking out the rancid smell. Fuck. She needs a shower and soon. Her dingy brown hair sticks up every which way from lack of washing.

"Mom," I grunt, shaking her shoulder until her glazed-over eyes pop open and narrow at me.

You're the one who called my name. Not the other way around. I grumble internally when I raise my brows, expectantly awaiting her answer. She huffs, looking around with furrowed brows.

Watching her confusion morph into anger has guilt eating away at me. For as long as I can remember, she's been doing this to herself. Drugs every morning for breakfast and then again at lunch, and then she tops it off for dinner, too. For God knows why. Sometimes, people can't help the addictions they find themselves in. Once a drug takes hold, it's literally a disease eating away at its very core, dragging them further and further into its grasp. It's unstoppable. Uncontrollable. And ultimately, becomes their downfall.

My mother is the perfect example of this. Even if her addiction is the reason I'm in this mess. Sometimes, I want to lash out, hide her drugs, and lock her away. Other times, I want to pull her into my arms and remember the woman she used to be before she fell into this.

"I love you, my angel," she murmurs to me as she pulls me up into her bed. "How about we read this tonight?" she asks, putting an arm around my shoulders and tucking me in to snuggle into her side. "You're the most important person to me, Journey girl." Her grin widens when I look up at her and snuggle into her more.

"Please read, Mommy."

"Need help?" I ask, gesturing to the puke in her lap that turns my stomach over and over.

Her glassy eyes fall to her lap when she blows out the smoke in her mouth. "Sure," she says with tears falling down her cheeks now.

"Don't worry, Mom. I got you."

"Don't fucking call me that," she grunts when I slowly lift her shirt over her head, careful that the puke doesn't fall in her hair. But after a comment like that, one she’s made so many times, I'm tempted to say fuck it and let her stay dressed in her own puke. Why should I help when she doesn't give a fuck about me anymore? Because she's my mom, that's why. And for some fucked up reason, no matter what she's done, I can't give up on her. One day, I'll pull her back to shore from drowning. Just not today.

"Sure, Sable," I grumble, using her first name with reluctance. She flinches at the sound of her name, grumbling something unintelligible under her breath.

Since her drug addiction took hold, the woman has refused to let me call her mom. It's like she doesn't want the reminder of who I am. Or maybe it's who my father was. Corbin West. What would my life be like if my father had taken me away like I longed for him to do? I'd be in a mansion with no worries about where my next meal was coming from. I'd never have to shiver in the cold of night because my mom forgot to pay the heating bill or spent that money on drugs. Sometimes, I wonder how we've survived for this long. But then again, she always turns to the one man she shouldn't. My monster. The man she gave me to three years ago, who continues to pay for her habits and bills.

"That's better, you little twat," she mumbles, leaning on me in just her bra and panties as we head down the hall to the bathroom.

"Want it hot?" I ask, setting her on the toilet, getting a grunt in return. "Okay," I mumble, reaching into the standing shower and setting the water in the middle.

"Now go away," she hisses, tossing her spent cigarette into the toilet, and starts to undress.

"Aye, Aye," I grumble, flipping her off, and then shut the door.

Nothing makes me feel like shit more than having my own mother disregard me, especially when I'm helping her. She blames me for everything that's happened in our lives. Rightfully so, I guess. The feelings consume me more as I make my way to the kitchen, searching for breakfast. Fresh donuts sit on the counter. Peering around, I look for anyone here and find no one lurking in the shadows like I expect. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when I walk around the kitchen, the feel of someone's eyes on me, watching my every move. Or maybe it's the same eyes that walked into my bedroom when I was fast asleep. I shiver, shoving a donut into my mouth, and make my way back to my bedroom. It was my only sanctuary from the bad shit happening around me. Now, I don't even know if I can trust sleeping here.

The sound of the water shutting off and my mother moving around the bathroom has me hightailing it into my room and shutting the door. If Sable doesn't want my help, then she won't get it. I'll lock myself away, contemplating the rest of my day, and then, onto my newest mission—befriending Jenni and learning her schedule.

Find Jenni and befriend her—easier said than done. It’s been one week since my monster stole my peace and demanded I work my way into her life. How? I have no fucking clue. One day she’s in class, and the next, she’s out of school, doing God knows what. Usually, when he sends me on missions, there’s a time and place for me to spy. But this? God, this is all up to me and my sparkling personality. Or lack thereof.

It’s been exhausting, to say the least.

Wherever Jenni runs off to, I know she frequents those parties quite a bit. Especially hosting her own. Fuck! They’re my least favorite places to be, especially when I'm working.

I hate the people crowding around. The loud voices. Just everything in between. I'd much rather be at home, wrapped in my blankets, and reading a book. Especially today. It’s Saturday morning and the sun is shining bright in the sky above our trailer, illuminating my messy room. More pictures showed up last night on my pillow, leaving a hollow feeling in my stomach, but it’s not fear. I can’t even place it. Maybe it’s a comfort to have my stalker sneaking in my window and watching me as I sleep. At least they look out for me, eliminating the threats sneaking into my room.

I longingly look at the book sitting on my nightstand, staring at me and begging me to crack it back open. Gabby and The Gobblers, a Thanksgiving-themed book. Nothing says take my mind off my dismal life than reading about a girl getting railed by three triplet turkey shifters in an alternative world of fated mates. How I wish I could, but I’ve got work to do. Jenni will no doubt be attending a party or hosting one herself.

I pick up my phone and begin scrolling social media again, looking for the girl I need to spy on. And there she is, smiling in her profile picture with a beautiful mountain backdrop. Her red hair glistens in the sun, almost matching her bright smile, showcasing her pearly white teeth. She’s an absolutely beautiful girl inside and out, which is rare to find. I’ve talked to her a handful of times in math class, when her brows furrow and she stares at the board like she doesn’t have a clue as to what’s happening. I’ve helped her, and she thanked me by inviting me over for parties here and there in passing. She’s social, nice, and very friendly—which will ultimately be her downfall.

“What does that say?” she asks, squinting at the board.

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