Page 146 of Unholy Obsession

I press my hands to my temples. Oh shit. I know this feeling. I’m not right in the head. This happens sometimes. When I get pushed too far. Too far. Too far. Too far. I don’t tell anyone.Shhh. Don’t tell don’t tell.They already think I’m crazy.

The crowd moves around me, liquid and distorted, shifting in ways that don’t make sense. A man brushes my arm, but when I turn to look, his face isn’t right. His eyes are too dark, his mouth stretched wide in a grin that doesn’t end.

The music warps and deepens, twisting into something hungry.

A woman in a red dress is dancing near the bar, except her feet aren’t touching the ground. She’s hovering. Her feet dangle inches off the floor, her arms limp at her sides. Her hair floats around her like she’s underwater. Her head tilts too far, and her black, endless eyes find mine.

My breath stutters.

Her lips part, and even though the club is still pulsing with music, I hear her whisper like she’s inside my head.

You can’t run forever, Moira.

A maniacal giggle sounds right in my ear.Insidemy ear. Inside myhead.

The walls stretch. Breathing in. Breathing out.

Hands snag at my dress, fingers tangle in my hair. The air is heavy, pressing down, pushing me into the floor. The bass is inside me, rattling my ribs like they’re going to crack apart.

I can’t breathe.

I need out.

I push my way through the bodies, gasping, shoving, tripping over feet and knocking into strangers. I burst through the exit into the cool Texas night, hands on my knees, sucking in air like I just crawled out of a grave.

The city is still wild—still alive, still burning. But I am not.

I am unraveling. I am breaking.

I press my palms to my face, to my temples, squeezing.

BREATHE.

But the music is still inside me.

Baneis still inside me.

And I don’t know how to get him out.

FIFTY-FOUR

BANE

I spentall night with my phone in hand, staring at it and waiting for Moira to text. I typed out a hundred messages to her.

Where are you?

Are you okay?

Just let me know where you are and that you’re all right.

Moira, damn it, let me know you’re okay.

But I deleted each one, letter by letter, hands dragging through my hair as the clock ticked onward—two a.m., three a.m., four.

I lie in bed, but I don’t sleep. I can’t imagine that sleep is something that’s going to happen anymore. Not without her beside me. Not with this clawing, empty ache sitting inside my chest like something gaping and bottomless.

The sheets are ice-cold. My body is stiff, restless, clenched with the need to do something,anything, to chase away the ghost of her warmth. My stomach twists with hunger, but I don’t eat. My throat is dry, but I don’t drink. My body demands, but I refuse it. What’s the point of anything if she’s not here?

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