Page 73 of Distorted Obsession

“Have you lost?—”

I pulled from the memory at the echoing gasps ringing out, and I know what they’ve seen?—

Farrah straddling my chest…

Farrah bending, a knife between her lips…

Farrah holding my thighs open.

They won’t understand. They’ll twist it. Weaponize it. Project all their disgust and sanctimony onto something that was never meant for them to see.

Her voice echoes like a ghost in my ear. “Evie, this is how we become blood sisters.”

That’s all it was. A promise. An anchor. A fucking lifeline, carved into skin because sometimes words weren’t strong enough.

We came from good homes—loving families—and still wanted to die. Still hurt ourselves. Still needed something to make it stop. That was our shame, the guilt no one else could ever understand.

I was supposed to be her safe place. Her vault. Her person.

But I left her behind.

And this video—this digital necromancy on full display for everyone to dissect—doesn’t just prove I failed her. It rubs my fucking nose in it.

My stomach clenches, and the tears come hot. Not from grief. From disgust—at myself.

With this, we seal our fates—forever one. Fi hadhih alhayaat walakhira.

In this life and the next.

God, I didn’t deserve her.

Not then.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not today, Evie.

I drown out the sounds of our hisses. “How did they get it? No one’s supposed to have this,” I mutter when a hand lands on my shoulder.

My blurry gaze meets Ayana’s brown eyes, but the warmth that usually greets me is replaced with worry. “Eva.” Even her voice is laced with pity. “Let me take you back to the dorm.”.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jade murmurs, coaxing me like she’s talking me off a ledge.

I snort, wishing for the millionth time that I was standing on one.

How can I be alive while she had to die?

My intrusive thoughts swirl, throwing jabs at the brick wall surrounding the box I don’t touch. I want to shout “Good luck” to each throw. There’s not a chance in hell it’s getting through that barrier.

“Turn it the fuck off,” Camiel demands, but it’s too late. The damage is already done.

My nails dig into the flesh of my thighs—the pain, a close friend, taking me from the reality of my current existence.

There’s too much noise.

“Holy shit, did they really do that?” I hear someone mumble.

---