Page 7 of The Art of Obsession
STFU! He’s a parasite.
Suck on me, sexy.
Shit, I’m doing that thing in my head where I talk to myself. Except, instead of an angel on my shoulder and a devil, it’s more like a rational researcher vs a smutty psycho. She manifests whenever I’m triggered. But only her. She’snota split personality—just a purposeful figment of my imagination. Apparently, I picture her like a curvy fairy with silky, pink hair, red wings, and black curling horns.
She goes by Cherry Bomb.
What if he’s a serial killer?I ask.
I CAN FIX HIM!
You’re insane. My soul needs a colonoscopy!
The hot, masked guy—hopefully not a serial killer—takes my jaw in his strong hand, almost to the bruising point. “Wherever did you just go, Little Quill?”
“I-I…” I stammer and try to retreat into the wall, wanting to teleport more than ever.
His hot breath coasts along my lips. “Do not try my patience. I will give you one chance to tell me, and if you lie, I will know.” His hand cups my throat, thumb trained on my pulse.
I swallow hard and confess, “I dissociate sometimes.”
He tilts his head, the mask expressionless apart from the weeping blood. “We’ll work on that.”
What? What does he mean by that?
Oooh, maybe he’ll keep us as a pet. I’ll gladly crawl to masked daddy.Cherry flutters, her wings vibrating with eager energy.
Shut up, you crazy bitch.
Gloved knuckles brush my inflamed cheek, deepening the blush. “Now, before we get down to business, I require your answer.”
“Can I have the question first?” Ugh, Evie.
Brat mode activated!
“Do not interrupt me,” he snarls, pulling my hair again.
Cherry swoons.Marry me!
Lobotomize me.
Spoilsport,she huffs, tossing her hair back.
“I’m going to take a step back.” He traces a finger around my lips, and it takes all my willpower not to lick them. “And you are going to stay right here while I ask you a question. I will give you ample time to run soon, but if you move now, I will punish you. Is that clear?”
Psycho slut twirls.Punishment funishment!
Is that the question? I almost say, but rationality prevails. “Yes, I understand.”
“That’s a good girl.”
He releases me, taking one step back, then another, and one more…as if testing me. I keep my hands against the wall behind me, fingers curved, ready to run whenever “ample time” comes.
He holds out his arms, exhibiting himself like Gerard fucking Butler inThe Phantom of the Opera’s“Why So Silent” scene. “Tell me, for science purposes naturally, your first impressions.”
Oooh, can I say, can I say?
No.
