Page 11 of Obsession

The words leapt off the page, sick and vile, recounting deeds that would make the devil himself wince. Each sentence was a blow, each paragraph a stab, painting scenes of brutality in ink. Yet, I couldn’t stop, drawn in by the raw honesty of his savagery. It was repulsive, the way he detailed the infliction of pain with the precision of a surgeon and the glee of a child ripping wings off flies.

“Can’t handle the truth of me?” Riot’s voice sliced through the quiet.

His question hung unanswered as I turned another page, the horror unfolding before me like a car crash in slow motion -- impossible to look away from. The descriptions cut deep, leaving marks no one could see but felt down to the bone. I realized then, amidst the gore and the madness, that Riot was more than a monster -- he was a man torn apart and stitched back together with barbed wire and broken glass.

“Keep reading,” he dared, the challenge laced with something that might have been pride or maybe defiance. It was hard to tell with the shadows clinging to his face, turning his features into an unreadable mask.

So I read on, the lines blurring between disgust and fascination, the twisted words binding me to him one line at a time. Each page was a piece of Riot laid bare, and I couldn’t help but wonder if beneath the bloodshed, there was someone worth saving -- or if I was just another victim caught in his web of insanity.

It was clear he’d started these while he’d been locked up. Everyone in town heard the story of where these men came from. It wasn’t a big secret or anything. In fact, they’d used it to instill fear into all of us. I didn’t know why he’d bothered to smuggle them out when he’d been on the run. But within the pages, I learned his secrets. The things he’d suffered as a child, the way he’d been treated while locked up, and all the nightmares he’d faced -- first by himself, and later with Crash and Kane by his side.

“Did these things really happen?” I asked, glancing up. He gave a short nod. “So your parents really…”

“Yes. They really did loan me out to their friends from the age of nine to be used however they saw fit. The man who hurt me the most was my second kill. Do you want to know why?”

Did I? I wasn’t sure, but I waited to see what he’d say.

“The first woman wasn’t intentional. She’d tried to crawl into my tent when I was eight years old. I’d lured her away from the campsite and killed her, then left her for the animals to feed on. But it showed me how much I enjoyed it, and I knew I could do the same to the others.”

Others? I waited for him to continue, letting him speak and tell me as much as he wanted to. While part of me didn’t want to hear it, I thought it might give me more insight into who Riot was and what made him tick.

“I fought the first time my dad’s friend hurt me. Cried. Struggled. Did everything I could to stop it from happening. So my father held me down while the bastard shoved his cock into me. He raped me for what felt like forever.” He crept closer, squatting beside me. “I waited until I knew he’d be alone, then I snuck into his house and slit his throat while he was sleeping. That was the moment I realized a quick death was too good for the likes of him. For all of them.”

“And you went after the others next?” I asked.

He nodded. “They were all sadistic in their own ways. Perhaps I’ve always had darkness inside me. Maybe being used by those people only set it free a little sooner. Once I’d finished them off, it was my parents’ turn. Since dear ol’ dad had held me down the first time one of his friends had fucked me, I tied him up so I could start with his fingers and make the pain last. That way even in the afterlife, he wouldn’t be able to use his hands for anything. I can only hope he’s getting a taste of his own medicine down in hell.”

Bile rose in my throat. How could parents do such a horrible thing to a small child? But if he’d started out killing those who’d hurt him the worst way possible, what had changed?

“I see you have more questions,” he said. “Here. Read another one.”

I read for a while. I didn’t know how long. My neck started to ache from staring down at the pages. Snapping the fifth journal shut, I looked up at Riot, as he towered over me. I could feel his gaze burning into me.

“Spit it out,” he commanded, his tone void of warmth.

My pulse hammered against my throat, each beat screaming for me to run. But there was nowhere to go. And part of me didn’t want to escape -- not yet. “You’re not just… not just the fiend they say you are.”

“Is that sympathy I hear?” His words were a challenge, as if he dared me to feel such a thing for him.

“No.” I shook my head, forcing steadiness into my tone. “Just an observation. You’ve been through hell, haven’t you? Doesn’t excuse your sins, but it paints a fucked-up picture, doesn’t it?”

“Judgment’s easy from a distance,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur, “But you’re in the thick of my world now. Can’t ignore the blood on the walls when you’re the one splattered in it.”

“Never planned to ignore it,” I said. “But I see the cracks in your armor, Riot. I see the bastard child of pain who learned to bite before the world could swallow him whole. And I can’t blame you for the things you did back then. No one could endure so much and remain sane.”

Of course, that didn’t explain why he enjoyed killing so much now. The people in this town hadn’t done anything to him. He’d likely killed others before getting here. Had it thrilled him so much he couldn’t stop? Or like he said, had there always been darkness inside him?

A cruel grin tore across his face. “There’s no redemption here, Hollis. Just survival. And you’re neck-deep in the quicksand with me.”

“Guess we’ll see who sinks first,” I muttered. Now that I’d seen another side of him, I couldn’t paint him as a killer. Sure, he’d taken lives and continued to do so, but at one point he’d probably been an innocent child. His parents and their friends had created the monster he’d become. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe. If I held onto that thought, then it made him more human, and made it easier to swallow my attraction to him.

The world stilled as Riot’s hand reached out, a shadow moving through the gloom. His fingertips grazed my cheek with an unexpected tenderness. I leaned into his touch without thought, drawn to the warmth that belied the coldness in his eyes -- a moth fluttering recklessly toward a flame.

“Didn’t peg you for gentle,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Life’s full of fucked-up surprises,” he replied.

His thumb traced the line of my jaw. The quiet was a living thing, wrapping around us. I realized then, with a jolt that rattled my bones, the man who could snap necks like twigs had found a way to cradle my face as if it were something precious. And damn me to hell, I wanted him to hold it -- to hold me -- just a second longer. What sort of person did that make me?

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