Page 53 of Painter's Obsession

I glance at her hand, veins bulging under pale, paper-thin skin. I should hold it, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when everything about this moment feels so wrong.

“Mama,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I struggle to keep the tears from spilling over.

Her gaze locks onto mine, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of the woman she used to be. Her eyes soften, her lips twitching as if she’s trying to smile.

“I know, mijo,” she says softly, her voice barely audible.

I stiffen. The words land like a slap, and I look away. She knows. She’s always known.

“You’re my boy,” she continues, her fingers twitching weakly as if trying to reach for me. “No matter what.”

Her voice is meant to comfort, but it feels like a knife twisting in my chest.

If she knew—if she really knew—why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she stop him from dragging me into the living room, from pulling off his belt while she stood in the kitchen, silent and unmoving?

“I’m not...” The words catch in my throat. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “You didn’t stop him.”

Her eyes flicker with something I don’t want to see—regret, guilt, maybe even shame. “He thought—“ She coughs violently, her chest heaving from the effort.

“Don’t.” My voice is sharper than I intended, but I can’t take it back. “Don’t make excuses for him. For you.”

Her cough subsides, and she looks at me again, her lips trembling. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, but instead, she says, “You’ll be okay, mijo.”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Will I? After everything? You think I’ll be okay?”

Her eyes glisten, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Her hand finally reaches mine, cold and shaking, and I take itreluctantly. Her grip is weak, but I feel it—the desperate need to hold onto something, someone.

“Promise me,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Don’t let him—don’t let what he did break you.”

The lump in my throat grows, threatening to choke me. I should say something, but I can’t. The words won’t come.

The beeping slows, each note dragging longer than the last. Her grip loosens, her fingers slipping from mine.

“Mama?” My voice is barely a whisper.

The flatline hits like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile stillness.

“MAMA!”

The scream tears out of me, raw and broken, as nurses rush into the room. Their voices are urgent, their movements hurried, but they’re too late.

“Sir, we need you to step aside,” one of them says, but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the floor, my eyes locked on her lifeless face.

“Mama...” My voice breaks again, the sob ripping through me.

Behind me, I hear my sister’s voice, high and panicked. “MOM!” She pushes past me, but I don’t turn. I can’t.

I wake up gasping for air, my body burning hot, my lips cracked from dehydration. My chest heaves as I sit upright, the flatline still ringing in my ears, faint but relentless.

For a moment, I swear I can feel her hand in mine—frail, trembling, cold. Then it’s gone, and all that’s left is the silence and the bitterness.

She knew. She let it happen. And I never got to tell her that I forgive her. That I love her.

My body aches, yet the chills don’t stop me from convulsing. The head of my cock, where my foreskin used to be, throbswith a constant, deep ache, and my hand moves to the spot instinctively. The skin is hot to the touch, inflamed, and tender.

“Fuck,” I groan, trying to roll over, but my body won’t cooperate. A single tear slides from the corner of my eye, hot against my fevered cheek. All this rage, all this fighting, all this pain—and I’m helpless.

Looking down, I see the swollen, angry skin. The stitches look wrong, too tight, like they’re about to burst from the pressure. At this point, I know it’s infected. The fever and chills are a clear enough sign. I’m in fucking trouble.

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