Page 19 of Frozen Obsession

My mother spiraled deeper into her drinking and drugs after that, and I was left in a prison of my own mind. I was always stuck in a box, even when I was free. But by then, the damage was done. I was already broken beyond repair.

Rage bubbles inside me, and I start grabbing anything within reach, hurling it at the door, the window—whatever I can hit. I need to get out. Now. If Roman thinks he can cage me like before, he’s dead wrong. No one will ever keep me trapped again—not him, not my past. I won’t let it.

Spotting his hunting trophy on the shelf, I grab it and smash it through the window. Glass shatters everywhere, cutting into the soles of my feet as I climb over. I’m not so high up that I’ll die or break a bone, but the fall is definitely going to hurt. Still, I’d rather face the pain than stay trapped. I could really use a fix, anyway. Fuck Roman and his need to "help" me. I don’t need his help. My addiction is my choice.

I jump, landing awkwardly, pain shooting through my body as I hit the icy ground. "Fuckk," I groan as the cold bites into my skin, knocking the windout of me. For a few seconds, I just lie there, gasping, willing my lungs to start working again. Slowly—painfully—I manage to push myself up. My bare feet throb from the cold and the cuts, but I’ve been through worse.

I stumble back inside, my feet leaving a trail of blood behind me as I head straight for the kitchen. I need coffee. That’s all I care about right now. Once I get my cup, loaded with sugar, I’ll figure out my next move—and get my fix.

Ignoring the blood smearing across the floor, I start rummaging through the cabinets until I find a fresh bag of coffee grounds. The aroma hits me as soon as I rip it open, and for a moment, it calms me. My hands are trembling—whether from the cold, the withdrawal, or both, I’m not sure—but I go through the motions of brewing the coffee, craving that small comfort.

I grab my sugary French vanilla creamer from the fridge and place it on the counter. Then I fetch my Hello Kitty mug and wait for the coffee to finish brewing. Pouring the steaming liquid into the mug, I watch as it swirls, turning from dark black to a lighter shade of brown once I add the creamer. The storm outside is starting to pick up now, the wind howling against the windows, rattling the glass as if the house itself is alive, a dark presence pressing in on all sides. But I barely notice, my thoughts narrowing as I shuffle towards the bathroom, reaching for my stash.

I pop open the bottle of oxy’s, toss two pills into my mouth, and wash them down with coffee. As I swallow, a sense of relief washes over me, but it’s fleeting. The storm outside intensifies, the wind screaming like some wild thing, but it’s the silence inside that’s worse. The eerie stillness in the house, the absence of any sound other than my own breath—it’s like the calm before a nightmare. My hands are still shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from the cold, withdrawal, or the fear gnawing at the edges of my sanity.

I need a distraction, anything to anchor me in reality. As I leave the bathroom and walk into the living room, I grab the remote and turn on the TV. YouTube, Christmas jazz music to be exact—it’s supposed to be comforting, but today, it feels off. The notes seem to twist in the air, distorting, blending with the howling wind outside until they form a discordant symphony that sets my teeth on edge.I sink into the lazy boy near the window, the one his dad used to sit in. I still remember Senior, how he saved us, my mom and me. And how his suicide damned us. There’s a cold spot in the room, right where his chair is, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just a draft. I believe in ghosts and it's crazy to say but sometimes I can feel him. His comforting presence too bad he didn’t stick around to protect us like he promised.

I pull my knees up to my chest, the fabric of Roman’s shirt soft against my skin, but the comfort is superficial. My mind keeps drifting back to him, to the feel of his hands on me, rough and demanding. I’m not sure when my fingers start to move, slipping under the waistband of my leggings, but it feels almost automatic. My breath hitches as I press my fingers against my clit, a wave of heat washing over me, chasing away the cold for just a moment. The memory of Roman, his body over mine, the way he used to make me feel—it’s like a drug in itself, something I can’t help but crave.

I close my eyes, letting the sensation take over, my fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. The music playing on the TV fades into a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears. I can almost feel Roman—his hands, his mouth, his cock—claiming me, owning every part of me. Damn him. He always knew how to get under my skin, making me need him in ways that made me hate myself.

Even now, when I want to despise him, my body betrays me, aching for the memory of him like a starving animal. I press my fingers harder against my clit, tracing lazy circles as I plunge two fingers inside me, picturing it’s him filling me. Making me whole again. My breath comes out in ragged pants as I pick up the pace, trying to mimic the way he’d drag his cock in and out of me—but my fingers aren’t enough. They never are.

Frustration creeps up my spine like an itch I can’t scratch, and I battle with my orgasm, chasing it like it’s slipping through my fingers. It feels like an eternity of hovering on the edge, teetering between pleasure and irritation.

Just when I’m about to tumble over into bliss, the pills start to kick in. A heavy fog rolls over my mind, not enough to knock me out, but just enough todull everything—blurring the edges of my reality. My fingers slow, then stop altogether, as the heat in my belly fades, replaced by a cold, numbing weight spreading through my limbs.

I groan, frustrated, my hand slipping out from my leggings as I lay back in the chair. My eyes half-close, and the room around me turns into a soft, hazy blur. The Christmas tree in the corner twinkles with lights, their colors bleeding together, casting faint shadows across the walls. I stare at the lights, my mind drifting, the warmth of the room doing little to chase away the numbness settling inside me.

The room starts to feel distant, the sounds muted, as if I’m sinking into some deep, dark water. The horror of it all—the locked door, the storm outside, the ghostly presence in the room—it all seems less important now, swallowed up by the warmth spreading through my veins. The mug slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, but I barely notice. The pills have taken hold, pulling me under, deeper into the dark, soothing me until I’m floating in a soft, empty void.

But even in this haze, Roman lingers in the back of my mind, a shadow I can’t escape, no matter how many pills I take, no matter how far I try to drift away. And just before the darkness consumes me entirely, I hear something—a faint sound, almost like a whisper, coming from the direction of the door. My eyes snap open, but there’s nothing there, just the shadows playing tricks on my drugged mind.

I try to shake it off, telling myself it’s just the pills, just my imagination, but there’s a part of me that isn’t so sure. The chill in the air, the way the shadows seem to move—there’s something wrong, something I can’t quite put my finger on it. But it’s too late now. The drugs have me, pulling me down into oblivion, and there’s nothing left to do but let them take me.

As the darkness finally closes in, the last thing I see is the Christmas tree, its lights blurring into one big, twinkling mess, and the faint outline of a shadow moving towards me from the corner of the room. The shape is indistinct, but it’s there, growing closer, until it’s all I can see before the world fades to black.

Chapter Eleven

Roman

The first thing I noticed was the broken window in my pops’ room—the same room I thought I’d safely tucked away my little junkie. I let out a sigh. I’m fucking exhausted. Cold. Sore. It was late by the time I finally got some sleep after getting rid of Jimmy, and then I had to finish dealing with Marcos. Thought she was safe there, but I should’ve known better. My little snake’s always been a wild card.

The crunch of snow under my boots fills the air as I walk toward the house. I open the door, and a trail of blood immediately catches my eye, leading straight to the kitchen. The smell of coffee and copper lingers, and I follow the trail into the living room.

Sunlight spills through the windows, casting over her like some kind of fucked-up angel—my little junkie angel. She’s slumped in my father’s old chair, limp, high as hell. The cracked Hello Kitty mug lays on the floor, coffee spilling across the wood.

My nostrils flare. She’s fucking high. Again.

But now that I’ve dealt with the bodies, I can focus on her and what needs to get done. My cock stirs in my pants—why, I couldn’t tell you—but it needs attention. Her being passed out won’t stop me. I waited long enough.

My boots echo across the room as I close the distance between us. A twisted laughslips from my mouth. She’s such a pathetic sight—helpless, drugged out—but it stirs something dark and hungry inside me. My beautiful broken doll.

I strip off my clothes and head to the guest bathroom downstairs. I’ll fuck her, but first, I need to shower off the remains of her lovers. Using her cheap soap, I wash away the grime, blood, and sweat. It doesn’t take long before I’m out of the shower, not bothering to dry off. Naked, I walk back to my little junkie. She’s in for a rude awakening.

I pull down the tinsel she’s hung over the door frame that separates the living room from the hallway and walk to her. She stirs slightly when I begin to undress her, but she’s still blissfully ignorant of the horrors yet to come. As I peel off her leggings, I hiss when I see she’s not wearing any panties.

"Of course," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. "Always ready for trouble, huh?"

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