Page 35 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

Opening the bag, I grab the things I need before opening an alcohol wipe and cleaning the area. I open the butterfly needle package before smacking at a noticeable vein and inserting the needle, and finally hooking up the line. After connecting the line to the IV bag, I hang it up on the bed frame and finish tucking him in before I leave him to clean up another mess.

I stop in front of the door to the studio. Blood covers the floor, and I’m thankful I placed the tarp down… easy cleaning. But the more I focus on the red, the ground shifts and I’m no longer in the cabin.

I’m in my room.

Naked. My hand is shaking, still gripping the knife.

“Mo—“ I try to say the word, to call the name she dreaded coming from my lips. The tears burn my eyes, and I sniffle them up.

Shaking my head, I focus now on what I need to do. On what’s real—and not the monster I killed and buried. Walking up to the bloody canvas, I kneel beside him. His bright blue eyes remain open, glassed over and dulled. Using two fingers, I close his eyes, allowing him one final mercy. After all, his death was the catalyst for the rebirth of Byron.

This will help him understand. Sink him quicker. Where I can feel him.

I stand and walk over to the armoire in the corner of the room. Opening its wooden drawer, I pull out what’s become my favorite piece of all. There’s something personal in cutting up the pieces to arrange them into something whole.

My gift to him will be his immortalization.

So I begin the process, my hand resting on his thigh while my other begins to saw at the area that connectsto his hip. It’s not easy sawing off body parts, but this is what makes the results worth it. You’re creating with your hands, memorizing each cut and muscle. Then you recreate, and attach the pieces to create something beautiful. Byron, in his own way, cared for this one, so maybe one day he will appreciate my efforts—because it’s a lot. Applying more pressure to disconnect the layers of muscles, I continue to hum the song my mother would sing to me.

Beautiful Boyby John Lennon.

My eyes focus on the blood that stains my father’s desk, no matter how many times it’s been cleaned. If I focus enough, I can still see it and smell it which causes my stomach to knot. My fists ball at my sides as I think of all the times I would go into his office looking for a father who was never there.

“Dad—“

My dad would raise a hand, silencing me the moment I walked through the door. Work was always more important... we didn’t matter.

This time was no different.

So, I barge out of the office and run down the hall, trying to calm my heart and the tears that run down my face. I run straight to the room where I feel safe... where I’m wanted. Quietly, I open the door to her room. She lay sleeping, her onyx soft waves splayed on her pillow like a halo, her red lipstick smeared along with her mascara. Like she’s been crying... she was always crying... always angry... but I make her feel better.

And maybe she helps me feel better... We make each other better. Mommy says I only need her. Only her. Forever her and I. Softly, I peel back the white comforter and slip in the bed with Mommy. Her warm body soothes me.

My fingers dig deeper into his thigh, my will fighting with my mind to remain in the present... to remain here.

“Fuck,” I say through gritted teeth, finally breaking the thigh free. The flesh tears away with a final yank, and the coagulated blood oozes out from the piece of bone that pokes through. The memory of her perfume still lingers. My head pounds, and the gut feeling that I have made a grave mistake is too loud to ignore. But I need toget on with this... and it takes me forever to dismember and clean the pieces.

To clean theroom.

After spending quite some time dismembering blue-eye, cleaning up my mess, and storing the meat, it’s finally time to clean myself... but no matter how much I try, I cannot scrub away the red. It stains me entirely. My hands move on autopilot, turning the faucet to make sure the water is hot enough to boil away the memories and keep me grounded long enough to shower without her interrupting.

But it’s happening again. I’m slipping...

Washing my hair, I feel her nails caress my back, then feel her small delicate hands as they wrap around my traitorous cock. Slapping my head, over and over, but I still feel the warmth of her mouth as she sobs. Always crying.

“Look at me,” she sobs around my length, but I stare at the tiles, trying to imagine that I am anywhere but here. Soapy water runs down my face, burning my eyes as her nails dig into my hips which causes me to thrust into her throat, causing her to gag—to cry. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. The steam from the room suffocates me. Her mouth on me destroys me, and I can’t tell if it’s the wateror my tears that stream down my face as I look down and see my eyes staring back at me.

The pain of my hand slapping my head pulls me out. Quickly, I scrub off the memory, but it’s never enough. Turning off the faucet, I don’t bother to dry myself off as I walk out of the bathroom, and down the hall to the kitchen. I’m no longer hungry, and truthfully, Byron will be out for a while. I turn on the small TV while I wait for the pot roast cooking on the stove to cool down, and lower the volume. No news on Byron’s disappearance yet... nothing for his friend either.

But I’m still wanted.

Still talked about even weeks later...

Frustration boils within me. I shouldn’t have stuck around, but this compulsion... obsession with Byron has kept me rooted. Walking over to the cookie jar, I open the small ivory container and pull out the pre-rolls Kevin left on his last visit. Well—I asked for them. They were good to have around to reward my Thorn, but they also served to calm my nerves. SomethingI’ve never needed before,. but every day, I feel more and more like her.

So, smoking helps.

Turning off the news and lighting up the joint, I smoke in the silence of the kitchen until the joint burns down to nothing, scorching my fingers. Letting the small piece fall into the sink, I turn on the water, washing it down the drain before putting away the pot roast I made for us. My feet drag as I walk into my room. I stand at the door, looking at the man who has become my Achilles’ heel— a weakness that I need to deal with.

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