Page 42 of Their Obsession

I was never brave enough to ask Dom what he knew—what he saw. I don’t think I want to know. Some secrets should stay buried six feet deep.

Dom. The thought of him brings a throbbing ache back up intomy chest. He didn’t want to leave me. He didn’t want to abandon me. My mother drove him away. We were young and dumb and in love. She took my savior from me; made me believe I was all alone.

White hot anger flashes across my eyes. Spots dance around the edges of my vision as the fury threatens to swallow me whole. My chest tightens. I’m losing control. I can sense the impending spiral threatening to pull me under. My grip tightens on the handle of the knife in my hand; my knuckles turning white. Just a little cut, a little blood, and the pressure will release. The steel of the hunting knife I grabbed from my father’s garage on the way over here glints in the low light of the fading sun. My breathing is rapid and ragged.

And then a set of thick fingers are on my face. He wraps his hand around my chin, forcing my face to his. The white and black mask that covers his face is hauntingly familiar—my very own ghost. His eyes are completely obscured by the black mesh of the mask but I don’t need to see his eyes to read him; tension radiates off him in waves. He’s upset.

“How did you find me?” I ask him but he doesn’t answer. He cocks his head to the side to watch me. “My mother told me everything, the truth about why you left me.”

He still says nothing, but his free hand reaches out to wrap around my wrist, the one holding the knife. His grip is firm but not demanding. He’s offering me a choice—never a command.

“You want a fight?” His grip tightens slightly but not enough to be painful. “Then fight me.”

“What?” I ask, confused, as he releases me and steps back. He pulls something from inside the front pocket of his hoodie. A knife. Not just any knife—the knife. It’s still covered in the dark brown stains left on the blade a decade ago. I swallow down the lump forming in my throat.

“I will give you a thirty-second head start,Moy Klubnika, andthen I’m coming for you.” His tone is deep and dark and full of promises.

My mouth goes dry and my palms grow clammy. The thought of running from him, letting him chase me while he wears the mask. What will he do if he catches me?

“Dom—”

“One,” he interrupts me and holds up the blade. It glints in the low light of the evening, the promise of violence shining on the sharp steel.

I don’t stop to think anymore, I just run.

Luckily, I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand; my childhood home is just a block away. I careen past the blue and white house and around the side. There’s a path here, one all of us kids used to wander along, that leads behind fences of houses and beyond. The end of the trail leads to a wooded area behind our neighborhood. It’s just a small protected wetland, but when we were children it held a mystical quality. One time, when I was still in elementary school, Christopher O’Conner told me the fairies would kidnap me and eat me then send a changeling in my place if I went into the woods alone. Sometimes I wonder if he was right. Did I go into the woods with Peter that night in high school and come out as something else? Is the real me still lost out there in the woods?

I chance a glance over my shoulder, and my stomach plummets. He’s right behind me. The black and white mask makes him look like something out of one of the slasher films I love. Despite the fear and panic rushing through my body, another part of me is enamored with this moment. I’m no longer worried about losing control. I just focus on pumping my legs, on the burn in my lungs, and the distance left between me and the cover of the trees.

“Run, run, as fast as you can, little killer,” he sing-songs behind as if this is a game. His dark laughter skitters across my skin likesmoke; the promise of danger setting my nerves alight.

Maybe it is a game. Our own fucked up version of foreplay.

The cover of the trees is an immediate relief. Here I can hide. Out in the open, I was easy prey, but now the game truly begins. I dash between the foliage; sticks and rough bark scraping at my skin. But I don’t feel the pain, I just keep running. The hem of my white sundress catches on a bush and rips. My ballet flats are splattered in mud; they’ll be completely ruined. The thought brings a bubble of laughter to my throat.If only my mother could see me now.The ground is soft and damp with fallen leaves and debris. The last streaks of sunlight have completely faded now and all that’s left is shadows between the scraggly trees. This place is full of darkness.

I come to a stop between a large oak, my back against the coarse trunk while I try to catch my breath. In front of me is a small clearing with a thicket of thorned bushes ahead. I’m deep in the woods now. I listen carefully, but there’s nothing. No snap of a twig, no squish of mud, not even the sound of breathing other than my own.Maybe I lost him?

And then the blade is at my throat. His arm reaches around the tree, pointing the sharpened tip to my tender flesh.

“Caught you,Moy Klubnika.” He brings the stiff plastic of the mask right up against my face, as if he can smell my fear and hear my thundering heartbeat. “What’s my prize?”

He stiffens when my own blade nicks the skin of his stomach. I don’t drive it in enough to cause damage, just enough to let him know it’s there.

“I’m not helpless prey, Dom.”

He spins around so we’re facing each other. His free hand grabs my wrist, pinning my hand and the knife roughly against the tree above my head.

“Oh, I know, my love.” He trails his knife down, slipping it under one of the halter straps of my dress and pulling until thefabric gives. “Do you remember how we met?”

I’m confused by his question, but I don’t have much time to think about it as the white eyelet fabric flutters down without the strap holding it up, completely exposing my right breast. My nipple immediately peaks in response to the cold evening air. The masked man in front of me hums in approval. He moves the knife to the other strap, attempting to sever that tie as well. The second strap snaps, exposing my chest fully to him. Both breasts peak, the sting of the cold air eliciting a needy mewl to slip from between my lips. I want his mouth on me. I can tell he wants to touch me, but he can’t let me go with his free hand. If he touches me, he risks getting stabbed. I push my chest out, trying to entice him as my grip on the knife tightens.

“We were so young, elementary school even, and I’d just moved here.” I can barely make out in the low light the way his eyes behind the mask reluctantly move back up to my face. He tells me this story as if it’s ingrained in his psyche. I scan the recesses of my mind for the same memory but it seems lost to time. “The other boys picked on me all morning for not speaking English well, and then at recess, I sat to have a snack but the food was foreign to me and I missed my home and my old friends. I was a scared child and I began to cry.” His voice is rough and raw as he speaks as if he’s still upset, all these years later.

A lump forms in my throat. The image of this beast of a man as a sad and scared little boy makes my stomach twist into knots. I don’t remember him being the new kid. It feels like he’s always been in my life, always been stalking the shadows of my periphery.

“The boys started picking on me again, calling me a crybaby. I was so angry and sad. I had promised my parents I’d be good and wouldn’t make any trouble at my new American school but they were being so mean. I could feel myself about ready tosnap.” I can almost picture what he’s describing—our school, those same boys, even the bench. A potent combination of rage and sadness begins to form in my own chest. “And then you saved me. You stomped over in your pink dress, kicked them all in the shins, gave Chris O’Connor a jab to the eye, and sent them all packing.”

I still don’t remember that day in particular, but a mix of pride, sadness, and anger all churn in my stomach as he tells me about it.I saved him?All these years and I’d forgotten that memory completely. He’s just as much mine as I am his—our jagged pieces fitting together perfectly. I feel whatever had been bubbling up inside me all day receding with his admission. I’m not broken—I’m his.

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