Page 32 of Imprisoned Obsession

“You do not have a family.” A volatile growl punches through the stilled air, and the vibration casts hell into my rattling heart.

It hurts to breathe, so I don’t try.

His back coils and stills, he’s holding the air in his lungs. I pinch my eyes shut. I’m petrified, but I’m willing to accept the bruises he might cause around my neck.

It hasn’t been one color for a long time now.

“Willa,” he whispers, but it is loud in my ears. “You only have me.”

I open one eye slowly as I continue to hold my breath. He’s frozen in time. His loose hair doesn’t shift, and his shoulders are lined up perfectly with the bottom of the cabinets.

Elio hasn’t been wrong about me once. I only have him left. Janice is gone, and I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on my worst enemy.

My apartment is gone along with all my things, things that were an extension of me.

I was a cross between an orphan and a behavior-correction program survivor. Although I was in the program for no reason at all, I was not eligible to be adopted.

I never understood why I was in that program, in that house. I wasn’t a problem child; I was quiet and kept to myself. I was shy and scared of everything.

The older I got, the more I realized that what was happening every day in that house was really child abuse. The homeowners were just doing charitable work out of a need for validation and money.

They were seen by the public as a wonderful couple who took on difficult children and gave them “love,” but they were really dictators behind closed doors.

Oh, I think abruptly.

I don’t find Elio repulsive because I’m accustomed to violence.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper meekly.

The sound of his footsteps doesn’t come toward me on the marble floor. His hand doesn’t wrap around my throat to cause more discoloration, and his voice never rises to crush my spirit.

He stays silent, something I should’ve done.

I stumble out of the chair, doubting myself as I stand. The familiar stance brings some confidence as I challenge myself to step closer.

Like a disciplined child, I will accept the painful consequences. Someday, I’ll break through the conditioned response that has been pounded into my frail psyche.

Today, I want to be a good girl again.

Good girls get to play outside, sleep in warm beds, and eat good food. Good girls don’t get hurt, don’t need to cry, are allowed to be happy, and smile freely.

The knife he is holding flashes in the sunlight.

I hold out my hands, spreading the clammy fingers and waiting obediently.

I’m going to be okay; I’ll be careful. Elio is nicer than those demon-faced adults; he’ll be fair in punishing me.

“Control yourself, darling.”

I flinch instinctively and realize I’ve stopped breathing. Hot tears burn the rims of my eyes. Queasiness tortures my stomach as emotional exhaustion and adrenaline are tearing me apart.

I’m hyperventilating and utterly terrified.

The knife flashes again, and my fingers shake.

“Have you remembered something unpleasant?” His voice doesn’t soothe my fear; it merely adds to the stress on my heart.

“Unpleasant” is an understatement.

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