Page 16 of Imprisoned Obsession

I clench my fists, bringing brief pain to the fingertips. I flex my grip knowingly.

My boots crunch on the loose gravel, the sound snapping as I slip into the gated backyard. The lock was already broken, cleanly severed with a tool.

I’m not surprised, so it doesn’t stop my advancing shadow from edging towards the back of the house.

There’s a trampoline, a slide, and a swing set. They are a sign that children live in this house, another unsurprising fact.

I walk through the yard and scan the double locks on the screen door. My body recoils with fury, anger soaring through my veins as a recollection accompanies me up the creaking stairs to the door. The wood groans heavily under my weight as a motion pierces my peripheral vision.

My hand pauses on the latch of the door, and I slowly turn my eyes to the house next door. The curtains in the kitchen are closed, but it’s clear someone is doing the dishes.

I curl my fingers around the latch and press the other hand against the wooden frame for support. A quick, measured yank shatters the locks. The flimsy screen jiggles as I hold it open to study the lock on the back door.

If memory serves me right, the key in my hand still fits. I’ve kept an eye on the place, and the locks have never been changed.

The opaqueness here has created a false impression. Nothing about this place lives up to the sanctity that many praises it for having. It never did, and it never will.

I insert the key and listen to the clanking as it turns. It’s rusty and rigid, but the lock gives in to a left twist.

The smell of lemons assaults my lungs. Rage resurfaces with a vile desire to tear this place down with my bare hands.

I can. It would be easy. I can do so much worse than just knocking this place down. I have the money and the power to make the homeowners suffer in shocking ways.

I breathe in deeply, the lemon-scented air reiterating how much I detest this place and the memories attached to it. The smell also reminds me that I’m doing this for Willa.

This is going to be the next step into the future together. She needs to do this herself, but I know she won’t even entertain the idea without a push from me.

This is for her own good.

Whoever said, “time heals all wounds,” did not go through the terrors we did. Willa had felt what I went through, and I suffered through what Willa had experienced.

Willa can rely on me to help her get past her demons and become someone she can be proud of. I’ll be there, guiding her with every step calculated to achieve that goal.

I pull myself back from the intense resentment and square my shoulders. I trek through the pitch-black hallway, slipping silently into the kitchen to get the familiar layout in my mind again.

I had been here a while before meeting Willa. At the time, I was on the road toward destructive retaliation. I wanted to hurt a lot of people, and I wasn’t going to feel an ounce of remorse over their demise.

Then, I saw her picture.

Framed in a way that created the illusion of happiness. She wasn’t happy. I saw the pain in her eyes, the anguish that resonated with mine. The door to that chapter of my life had been ripped from the hinges by her miserable smile.

She was calling for help. She needed me to take her away from the hell that refused to let go even after she was no longer stuck in this house.

That is why I followed her, planned her dependence on me for financial and emotional support, and took her away from a world that was going to hurt her.

Her closure will be my closure, too.

“You have me, darling,” I whisper to the framed picture of a group of children.

She’s smaller than the others. She stood to the side, unwilling to be near them as the camera captured the truthfulness in her body.

She was scared, vulnerable, and ready to disappear from the picture.

I remove the picture from the colorful frame and tear her out of the group photo. They have no right to keep any trace of my darling in the house, not after how they treated her.

They’re lucky I don’t take them to court and put them in prison so the inmates can crush them. I thought about going the legal route, but that would not satisfy me.

They don’t deserve a fair trial and would just rot in their cells with the right to appeal the verdict. I’ve seen the work of the district attorney, and he’s about as incompetent as they come.

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