Page 23 of Painter's Obsession

Groaning, I roll onto my side and grab my phone. Five a.m. Less than three hours of sleep. But work waits for no one. With a heavy sigh, I haul myself out of bed and start getting ready for the day, hoping to leave this madness behind.

I left Gabby sound asleep back home, curled up in a ball like she always does when she’s stressed. I wanted to wake her up and apologize, talk to her. Tell her it wasn’t her fault. To stop seeing that prick—there’s something off about him. I feel it. No, Ican see it. But instead, I keep my mouth shut, leaving her to her dreams as I head out for another long day.

Now, I stand under the midday fall sun, sweat dripping down my back as I stir the cement mixture, the metallic clang of the trowel against the wheelbarrow echoing in the partially gutted house. My shoulders ache from hours of lifting, but I push through, focused on fixing up the fireplace my crew is working on. The air smells of dust, damp wood, and the faint tang of cement, mixing with the salty breeze that drifts in from Laguna Bay.

“Did you hear about Theresa? That girl from the diner is missing,” Pancho says to Chucho, who’s slapping plaster onto a cracked section of the wall.

I pause mid-motion, letting the trowel hang in my hand as my ears perk up. The weight of Pancho’s words sinks in, and curiosity tugs at my gut.

“Yeah,” Chucho replies, grunting as he smooths the plaster in even strokes. “I heard she was supposed to be in today, but her mom showed up looking for her. She never made it home last night.”

“Fuck. That’s so terrible for Señora Dolores,” Pancho mutters, shaking his head.

Chucho wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove, leaving a smear of white plaster behind. “Yeah, but you know the cops around here. Plus, the girl had no papers.”

“Yeah, they won’t do shit,” Chucho spits, his voice dripping with bitterness.

I sneer, gripping the trowel tighter. He’s right. The cops don’t care about us—not around here. They’re happy to haul us off in cuffs for breathing wrong, but when it comes to protecting us? Forget it.

We live in this endless cycle of violence, drugs, and poverty. A vicious loop that feels impossible to break. But that won’t beGabriela’s future—not if I have anything to say about it. She deserves better than this place. Better than these people. I’ll work my ass off to help her get through school now that she can focus on it.

During the two years I was locked up for drug charges, Gabriela had to carry the weight of our family on her back. Pops got sick and died from complications from his Diabetes, lost the shop, and Gabby had to drop out of college to keep the lights on. She found work at the salon Mom used to work at, but it killed me knowing she was trapped here like the rest of us. At least she didn’t end up like most girls around here—selling her body just to survive or some good for nothing baby momma.

But Laguna Bay is a cesspool of drugs, sex, and violence. A place that swallows people whole and spits out nothing but bones. But I won’t let it take her. Once I get us caught up on the bills, she’ll quit that damn salon and finally go back and finish college, just like she’s always dreamed. And hopefully Mr. Prince Charming can get the boot, I don’t like that motherfucker.

I grab the trowel and start spreading the cement on the slab, taking care to smooth it out before placing the bricks. Each motion is methodical, almost calming, like I can scrape away the mess of my life with every stroke.

Pancho and Chucho keep talking about Theresa, their voices blending with the hum of cicadas outside, but eventually, their conversation shifts to soccer. I tune them out.

People don’t just disappear around here. Sure, there’s plenty of murder, but the bodies usually show up riddled with bullets or hacked apart with machetes—bloody messages from the gangs. But this? Women disappearing without a trace, only to turn up later as part of some sick bastard’s “art pieces”? It’s enough to make my stomach churn.

The cops will probably brush it off, same as they always do. Say it’s just hookers running off or getting mixed up with thewrong crowd. But I know better. There’s something darker at play here, something the cops won’t touch because it doesn’t fit their narrative.

I run my hand through my hair, slick with sweat and grit. If no one else is going to do anything, then I will. Before the next one missing is my sister.

After nine hours of work and a fifteen-minute drive to the small retro diner, I light up a cigarette. The sharp tang of smoke fills my lungs as I lean against the truck door, my eyes fixed on the neon glow spilling through the diner’s windows. Through the glass, I watch Sandra flirt with a customer, her laugh forced, her posture stiff. She’s gotten good at faking smiles. I didn’t think she’d be working tonight, especially with her being a new mom. Now I don’t know if I even want to go inside and face the woman I’ve fucked over more times than I can make up for in this lifetime.

I’m just happy she was strong enough to break the cycle—to leave the toxicity of the half-assed relationship I gave her. But guilt eats at me every time I see her. All I see is her standing in front of the door, watching her cousin on his knees for me as I fucked his mouth. The cold, dead weight of that memory tightens my chest. I was drunk and lost control. The curiosity got the best of me, and I cheated.

My fist clenches reflexively, the phantom sting of knuckles meeting his face rushing back. I can still feel the way his blood slicked my skin, how I slammed my fist again and again, pretending like I wasn’t seconds away from blowing a load into his mouth. I’d played it off like I was drunk, but she didn’t buy it. Her silence when she left burned worse than any hit I took in those two years inside.

Losing her set me on a path of destruction. But I guess it worked out—she got with some guy and had a baby. And I remain the same confused piece of shit. Pulling my eyes away from the window , I scan the parking lot for anything out of place. The street lights flicker, casting shadows on beat-up cars and gravel cracks. Nothing. Just the usual locals. Finally, I take one last drag, let the bitter smoke bite my throat, and flick the cigarette to the ground. The butt glows faintly as I crush it under my work boots.

When I step inside, the doorbell jingles sharply, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware. Sandra turns, and her smile immediately falls, her hand tightening slightly on the coffee pot she’s holding.

“Good evening. Sit wherever,” she says flatly before turning her attention to someone else.

I don’t argue, just move to sit at the bars tools. The cracked leather groans under my weight as I settle in. At least Sandra won’t be the one taking care of me—John, the diner’s owner, will.

“Nice to see you, boy,” John says with a smile that creases the corners of his eyes. His wrinkled face lights up as if I’m some kind of small-town celebrity. “When’d you get out?”

“A little over month,” I reply, as my fingers automatically reach for the menu, even though I don’t need it. I always order the same thing. Taylor ham, bacon, egg, and cheese with salt, pepper, and ketchup on a cinnamon raisin bagel. My favorite.

“I got a job with Chucho doing construction and renovations. Gotta catch up on the bills,” I add, flipping the menu idly before setting it down.

John pauses his task of sorting cups, his blue eyes softening as he turns to face me fully. “Your dad was a good man.”

I nod stiffly, the words scraping at a wound I’d rather keep closed. People always say that, but to me, he was the man who held the keys to my prison—the reason I destroyed a part of myself. But he’s gone now. The past is the past.

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