Page 27 of Arranged Obsession
A part of me wants to kill. If I could find some lowlife, some fucking scumbag, maybe throttling him nice and slow would distract me from this vicious pain in my stomach. Maybe watching the lights dim from a man’s face might erase some of these terrible thoughts ruining me.
But it’s too late for that. Everything’s too fucking late.
I slam back another whiskey and shove cash across the bar. I stagger out into the night, not drunk, but not sober either. New York past midnight still buzzes with activity, even in this shitty neighborhood. I stomp down quiet streets, almost begging the world for a fucking mugger.
I need violence. I needsomething.
But the more I walk, the more I know there’s only one way I can fix what’s broken in me.
The worst part of all this is, before my feather, I felt nothing. Even during the last seven years when I treated her like a saint, emotions felt like weak flickering candles in vast empty caverns. There, somewhere, but buried deep down.
Only the kill gave me relief. Only worshipping at my saint’s altar brought me solace.
But now the candles are all burning goddamn fires. I’m feeling everything, and it’s all too much. The rage is there, the need is there, the jealousy and the obsession.
Through it all is my saint, my feather. My lightness and my goodness.
I keep seeing her in the garden. So fucking beautiful and fresh. She staggered into me and looked like she wanted to smash my lips with hers or maybe start screaming for help. The perfect reaction to my touch. Horror, need. Revulsion and want.
The subway clatters around me. An old man panhandles. I toss money into his plastic jug. He seems happy. Must’ve been a lot.
I stare vacantly as the stops flicker past. An old woman coming home from a long shift watches me nervously. I smile at her; she shrinks away.
The night is hell. I fight my way through it. My head’s a storm, and I don’t know how to quiet it. I don’t even know where I’m going until I’m on his doorstep, body trembling, mind a racing storm. When I hit the buzzer, I know this is a huge mistake. I know how deeply lost I am right now.
But there’s no going back for me.
“Who the fuck is waking me up at two in the morning?” Finn barks through the intercom.
“It’s me.”
There’s a long pause. “Cormac? Seriously?”
“I want to talk.”
“You know I’m getting married tomorrow, right?”
“Now, Finn. Buzz me through.”
There’s another pause, but finally the door unlocks. I push it open and step into his foyer. My brother’s house is in Riverdale, still technically in the Bronx, but tree-lined and rich as fuck. Not my kind of place. His decorations are expensive but tasteful, and the hallway is dark with one single light on upstairs. I hear him grumbling with annoyance as he comes down the steps in sweats and a t-shirt, glaring at me.
“This better be important,” he says, stopping at the bottom step. Some of his anger fades. “You look like shit.”
“I’ve been drinking.”
“You smell like a whore’s taint.”
“Been worse.”
He cracks a slight smile and gestures for me to follow. We head into the kitchen, modern and clean, where he brings down two glasses and cracks a bottle of the good Irish stuff. It’s warm and strong.
“I’m guessing you didn’t show up here to give me a pep talk.” Finn watches me carefully, leaning against the counter, keeping the island between us.
“No, I didn’t.” I stare at my glass, trying to figure out what I want. It’s so painfully obvious, but also impossible. To say it out loud would be like the ultimate betrayal.
But this is my brother. This is Finn, my youngest. He’s always been the best of us. Not soft, far from soft, but the kindest, warmest, most level-headed. Still not entirely sure of his place in the organization, but always trying his best to find it. Lost and adrift but earnest and loyal.
A good man. The sort of man I’d want my feather to be with.
