Page 17 of Imprisoned Obsession

The homeowners could get a team of lawyers to represent their case, and they would have a good chance of winning. The children they house have been too terrorized to speak up for themselves.

Look how Willa turned out. Her backbone is virtually nonexistent.

She’ll have no choice but to rely on me. I want her to do that, to accept that I’m the only person who cares about her.

“Mine,” I whisper again.

I put the frame back and scan the faces in the other pictures above the unused fireplace. It’s just for decoration since the interior space is lined with a layer of fine dust.

The floor creaks noisily as I examine the house. A piece of paper tacked on the bulletin board catches my attention. It’s a flyer about a camping trip, and tonight is supposedly one of the few nights to see a shooting star.

I hold back a scoff and turn away.

This is even better. The homeowners and the children aren’t here. I can move freely to gather what I need to implement the plan and make them pay for what they did to Willa and me.

I open one of the doors. Four beds are neatly squeezed in with a single personal item on top of each smooth blanket.

Privacy rarely exists in this multi-generational house. It’s been passed down from parents to children, and the vicious cycle never ends.

I count a handful of children living in the house with two owners now, but something is still missing.

I find the hidden stairs to the attic. Familiarity hits me more intensely. I’ve been up here before.

I was a very problematic child; I defied authority and spoke rather disrespectfully to anyone who tried to control what I did.

As a child, I was already predisposed to being stubborn.

Nothing in this house shocks me, although twenty-six years have passed since I was legally allowed to leave here.

The attic is another makeshift room. The homeowners told anyone who would listen that the children wanted to sleep up here because they liked the thrill of it.

There is nothing adventurous about an attic.

It was used to punish the children who made a minor mistake; this household didn’t allow mistakes. It wanted perfection from children who were never perfect in the first place.

We were abandoned. We were problematic.

This is a house for corrective behavior programs. Adults wanted to change us, to bring out the maturity of difficult children.

The edge of the staircase splinters in my grip as I glare spitefully at the neat beds. They face the window to ensure the occupants can see how happy the “good” children outside are.

Those who sleep up here stay in the attic until they learn from their mistakes.

It was a toxic household and still is. But no one would believe accusations of abuse from a bunch of riotous children.

I climb down and put the staircase back in its place. Now that I have calculated the number of children here, I can tweak some things in my plan and cause the greatest pain.

What I want to do is not what Willa would be able to stomach.

I travel back down the hallway and scout out the kitchen once more. The padlock on the refrigerator is another demeaning memory.

I wonder if part of my resilience and need for control came from here.

Whether it’s innate or learned, I like control. I feel safe and content, knowing Willa is under my command.

I’m an awful man. It brings me joy to see people in pain, whether they’re innocent or not. My job as a criminal defense lawyer allows me to have ties to those with deep pockets and the ability to repay favors they owe me.

I’m the reason they’re not in prison. They owe me their lives, and I intend to wring them dry whenever I decide to call in those favors.

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