Page 158 of Unholy Obsession

Because of him.

Something inside me breaks. A tether snapping loose, untamed rage surging up like a tidal wave. My hands are on him before I can stop myself, shaking his frail body like I can rattle the truth out of him.

“What the fuck did you do?”

His eyes shift slightly sideways, unfocused. And then he starts moaning.

“Sarah… Sarah, I didn’t mean it… You were my best bitch. Sarah, come back… Don’t leave me alone… You’re the only one who ever loved me… Sarah, listen…”

His arm reaches out to the side, grasping at nothing. At the phantom of my mother. As if she’d waste her afterlife haunting him.

My stomach twists. He isn’t here anymore. Not really. He’s back in whatever hell he crawled out of. But he can relive his past sins and cling to the ghosts of the women he broke another time.

“Hey!” I cry, shaking him again. “Don’t fade on me now, you fucker. What did you do to Moira?”

He finally looks back at me, his eyes widening in confusion.

“Who are you?” he asks.

Something dark and rotten unfurls inside me.

This is the first time in my entire life my father has ever looked at me and not seen a piece of himself. His possession. His legacy. His puppet. He sees nothing. And somehow, it’s so satisfying even as it cuts deeper than anything he’s ever done.

He starts flailing, reaching for the call button.

“Help! I’m being attacked! Who let this man in here? I should have the best security! Do you know who I am? I’m the richest man in the world! I’ll get all of you fired!”

I step back, staring at the crumbling ruin of the man who spent his entire life trying to play God.

Frightened. Frail.

I did some research on the disease on my way here. Cognitive decline—rapid, unforgiving—often happens when the disease is acquired externally, the way my father did.

But the bastard stayed lucid just long enough to destroy the only thing that ever mattered to me. Just long enough to make sure I’d suffer.

I step forward again, leaning down until I can whisper right in his ear.

“I hope you die a slow, painful death. Terrified and alone, like the little boy you made me my entire life, you sick fuck.”

His breath hitches.

His lips tremble.

And then I turn my back on him while he continues to shout pathetically, his voice already cracking apart under the weight of his own decay.

FIFTY-SEVEN

March, Six Weeks Later

MOIRA

Fucking drugs,man. And not the fun kind, either. I’ve been taking the kind a doctor prescribes for the last two months, and they’re total ass. This is what I get for letting Kira talk me into seeing her psychiatrist friend. I mean, at least they had something more novel to call me than sex addict.

Bipolaris my new shiny diagnosis, and the head doctor was sure he could get me all sparkly and new by swallowing these pills more and more every two weeks until I was at optimal dosage. Well, I finally reached the magical dose last week.

I thud my forehead against Kira and Isaak’s kitchen window in a slow, repetitive motion until Kira comes back in and catches me doing it.

“Moira! What are you doing?”

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