Page 11 of Unholy

“It was amazing, Tristan. Thank you.” He shakes his head as I pass him the helmet I had on. He slips it on his head and nods toward the house, wanting me to go. I start walking, and I can feel him behind me, watching my every move.

When I make it to the house, he revs up the bike and takes off down the road passing me altogether.

Chapter 5

Tristan

He thinks this scares me. This twisted, sick fuck of a doctor. It doesn’t. There’s no fear in me anymore. None I can feel anyway. So when I hear the click of the gun against my temple, I don’t even flinch. Over and over again, he does this. Mock execution is a form of psychological torture. The piece of shit doctor thinks he can scare me straight, but all I can do is laugh in his face. He doesn’t appreciate that much, though.

“This isn’t working.”

“Clearly,” he responds, pulling the hood off my head.

“What was the point?”

“I don’t know anymore, Tristan. Scaring you straight? Something has to work, right?”

“The meds don’t work. Talking doesn’t work. Your scare tactics are laughable. I’m a fucking lost cause, Doc.” He sighs, and I stand, offering my tied arms to him to untie. He does, and we walk over, sitting back on the couch as usual.

“Why don’t we talk about my newest obsession.”

“Which is?” he asks.

“My new little stepsister.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Tristan. Do you understand the severity of your condition?”

“Considering you have no fucking clue what’s wrong with me? No.”

“Yes, you do. Remember the last time you became obsessed with a girl?”

“I was ten, you stupid fuck!”

“And she ended up dead, Tristan,” he reminds me. He’s not wrong. We were playing a game, a game of life, and she hung herself. Of course, I was blamed for it, but I was younger back then, and there wasn’t much they could do with me. I was locked up in a mental institute for three years before they released me to my mom.

The professionals say I can’t love. They say I can’t hate, and I can’t feel. But they’re all fucking wrong because I can feel all of those emotions. I choose not to, of course. Why should I? Why should I feel anything for anyone when I don’t have to? But this? This thing with Ash? It’s different, and I know it.

“Semantics.”

“Is it? You can’t become obsessed with this girl, Tristan. It will only end badly for both of you. I know there are some sort of feelings deep down inside of you that you chose to suppress, and I can understand why you may think you’re obsessed with this girl, but you’re not. She’s just another girl.”

“Is she? Just another girl, that is.”

“Yes, she is. You have to put your focus on something else, Tristan. Your work, for example. I hear great things about your work.” I nod my head. There are always good things to say about my work. I’m fucking great at what I do.

“Focus on work, huh?” I ask as I sit back and light a cigarette. The Doc doesn’t care if I smoke in here, and I take full advantage of that.

“Yes. Your work will be seen all over the world one day,” he tells me, causing me to laugh.

“You’re shitting me, right? No one gives two fucks about me, Doc. The work? Yes, but when it comes down to the artist, they all fucking agree to keep me anonymous for a reason.”

“They fear you.”

“As they should,” I tell him, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I point my fingers at him before I begin to speak again. “They’re afraid of what I am. Of what I create and what I can do to them.”

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