Page 25 of Imprisoned Obsession

Elio chuckles and nudges his nose into my hair. “It’s alright, darling. Fragile things are meant to be torn down and rebuilt. Stronger and more resilient, that’s the truest form of art.”

He’s purposely cryptic as his broad chest purrs. Nevertheless, I don’t understand him.

He’s mysterious and bewitchingly magnetic. Everything he does is strategic, assessing the fine points while keeping things close to the vest.

Somehow, I fit into his deceitful intent.

Chapter Six

Elio

It hurts.

The damage has already been done, but phantom hands come at night to recreate the cutting of my skin and tearing me apart.

Regardless of the years that have passed, the nightmares are fresh when I wake up in the morning.

The seething sun traps the pain as it turns me into a hollow man again.

It’s a daily occurrence, one I’ve learned to live with.

On a bad day, I see paleness in the people around me. I think to myself that they need color, and that crimson would be a gorgeous shade to paint over their lifeless eyes.

The way I see people is represented by my work. I take on rich, world-class degenerates. There is no denying the depravity of their crimes, but nothing is off-limits as long as I get paid.

I feel a sense of vile joy when people are in pain. Physical or emotional, I don’t care. Pain is pain, and I crush people as if I am the one they have wronged.

I don’t have friends; I just have enemies and clients who owe me favors.

The closest thing I have to a friend is Willa. Even then, it is a concept I refuse to believe in. Friendships are for the fools who feel sympathy, asking to be backstabbed by two-faced people they consider comrades.

Things could change in the future. I may change over time and find a middle ground with my desire to hurt people, but this is not that moment.

Willa is not a friend. She is my darling girl, who I will cherish and love with every sinful breath I have. She is my possession, a remarkable obsession that ignites a rather troubling lust in my blood.

She can be my lover, my darling girl, and my lovely wife. She cannot, however, be my friend.

I’ve always wanted to be on the giving end and bask in my betrayal of a broken soul. It’s wrong, and I know it, but my morals did not develop properly.

Righteousness is not on my agenda, pandemonium is.

I have never gotten to act out this idea. Making friends is rather difficult. People are cordial and mannerly when they meet me, but they seem to pick up on the malevolence in me.

A trickle of pain mercifully fades away as I blink in surprise.

This never happens. The ghastly pain does come with a time limit, but it certainly doesn’t stop on its own until it has done damage to my body.

I set the glass of whiskey down, and ice swirls in the tawny liquor. I prefer it bitter to chase away the pain when I can’t sleep.

It’s been two weeks since I took Willa. She was an unwilling participant and fought me whenever I wanted to kiss her. But she’s starting to accept the reality of her life now. She would crumble without me, and I have made sure she knows the consequences that will befall her if she leaves me.

I have no qualms about teaching her a lesson. A trip to prison could be useful, but I wouldn’t let her stay there any longer than necessary to learn from her mistake. I want to be the one to shatter her sense of self and build her back up in my mold of perfection.

I won’t have to wait too much longer now. Isolation and my absolute attention have worn her down enough that she questions the validity of her concerns.

She has nothing to worry about. I’m more than happy to take care of her concerns and convince her that it’s not wrong to feel something akin to love for me.

If a man like me can experience love, so can a sweet girl like her.

---