Page 65 of His to Possess
As I opened my eyes, something caught my attention. In the corner, a pile of less valuable paintings leaned haphazardly against the wall. It was so out of character for Rex's meticulous nature that I was drawn to investigate. I carefully moved the canvases aside, my fingers trembling as I worked.
Beneath the pile, I noticed a slight demarcation in the wall—barely visible, but unmistakable to my trained eye. My pulse quickened as I pressed against it, half-expecting nothing tohappen. To my shock, a hidden door swung open with a soft click on my left.
Steeling myself, I stepped into the concealed room, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. The space was small and stuffy, the air thick with anticipation. At first glance, it appeared to be a library of sorts, with shelves lining the walls. But as I approached, my heart sank as I realized these weren't books.
My hands trembled as I reached for the first volume, my fingers trailing over the spine embossed with a woman's name. I knew without opening it that this wasn't a book, it was an album, a record of Rex's obsessions. With careful movements, I pulled it from the shelf and let it fall open in my hands.
The sight that greeted me was like a visceral punch to the gut. It was a meticulously curated collection of photographs, notes, and mementos. My eyes darted from innocent snapshots to explicit images, each one a piece of a complex puzzle that was Rex's psyche.
I found myself studying the pictures of this woman, trying to understand what had drawn him to her. From what I could gather, she had been a force of nature, intelligent and passionate. Notes scrawled in Rex's handwriting spoke of his desire to possess her, to make her his. Yet, there were also poems, filled with words of adoration and tenderness. It was clear he had cared for her, but the question remained, what had happened to her?
Page after page, I drank in the details, piecing together the evolution of their relationship. It was almost like reading a novel, except this story had been their reality. I found myself flipping back to the beginning, searching for clues I might have missed. And then, I noticed something unexpected.
In the back of the album, I discovered notes scribbled by Rex. He had kept track of her even after their time together, noting her achievements and the life she had built for herself. It wasalmost as if he had wanted to make sure she flourished, even if he wasn't a part of it. I realized that despite his possessive nature, he had seemed to want what was best for these women. Unlike Lola, who, according to August, had suffered greatly at Rex's hands.
I was torn between fascination and fear as I reached for another album, eager to uncover more of his secrets. My pulse raced as I scanned the shelves, taking in the volume of his collections. Each one was a testament to his intricate web of desires and the extent of his need for control.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, surrounded by the physical evidence of his obsessions. My fingers traced the spines of the albums, each one a chapter in his twisted narrative of love and control. The weight of what I had discovered pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe in the stuffy hidden room.
As I flipped through album after album, a realization hit me like a punch to the gut, my name was nowhere to be found. Relief flooded through me, quickly followed by a confusing pang of disappointment. Was I not special enough to warrant my own album? The thought sickened me as soon as it formed. How could I want to be part of this?
I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to make sense of the storm of emotions raging inside me. In such a short time, Rex had wormed his way under my skin, into my thoughts, my desires. I was horrified by the evidence of his obsessions, yet I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him. What did that say about me?
My hands shook as I reached for another album, determined to understand the man behind these meticulous records. As I pored over the pages, a pattern emerged. Rex's neat handwriting gave way to frantic scribbles; half-finished poems filled with longing and frustration. I saw a man desperately reaching out,trying to form a genuine connection, only to fall short every time.
My chest ached as I realized the depth of his loneliness. Each album was a failed attempt to fill a void he didn't understand. His obsessive collecting, his need for control, it was all a misguided effort to create the intimacy he craved but couldn't achieve.
I traced my fingers over a particularly poignant passage, feeling the indentations left by his pen. The words blurred as tears welled up in my eyes. Despite everything, I found myself wanting to help him, to be the one who finally bridged that gap in his soul.
The realization terrified me. Was I any different from these other women? Or was I just the next in line, destined to become another album on these shelves? I closed the book in my lap, my mind reeling. The line between love and obsession had never felt so blurred.
Hours slipped away as I immersed myself in his secret world. The weight of my discoveries intrigued rather than oppressed me, drawing me deeper into the complexity of his character. I found myself captivated by how he had obsessed over these women, collected them, and then let them go. It was a pattern both disturbing and fascinating.
My body ached as I rose from the hard floor, stiff from sitting for so long. I made my way out of the concealed room and toward his bedroom, my mind swirling with questions and conflicting emotions.
As I entered, my eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of my own album. Part of me dreaded finding it, while another part yearned for the validation it would bring. My gaze drifted across the meticulously organized shelves until it landed on a leather-bound volume tucked away on a high shelf.
My pulse quickened as I approached, standing on tiptoe to reach for the book. It was heavier than I expected, the leather smooth and cool beneath my fingers. A nameless book. I hesitated, my hand trembling slightly as I held it. Did I dare open it? What truths, or lies, might I find inside?
Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of the bed, the volume resting in my lap.
With careful hands, I retrieved the album and opened it. The first page nearly took my breath away. A photograph of a young Rex, no more than seven or eight, stared back at me. His eyes, already intense, locked onto the camera with a mixture of adoration and sadness that made my chest tighten. Beside him stood a stunningly beautiful woman: his mother, I assumed. Her smile was dazzling, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
As I turned the pages, I was struck by the contrast between the polished exterior of their lives and the palpable undercurrent of tension. Rex's mother was the epitome of grace and beauty in every shot, her outfits and makeup always impeccable. But his expression told a different story. In each photo, he looked at her with such longing, such desperate need for approval, that it made my chest tighten.
My fingers trembled as I came across the first handwritten notes. The childish scrawl was unmistakably his, though far less controlled than his current meticulous script.
"Mom promised we'd go to the park today. She forgot again. Maybe next time."
The simplicity of the words belied the depth of pain they conveyed. I could almost feel young Rex's disappointment, his hope fading with each broken promise.
Another note caught my eye, its ink slightly smudged as if tears had fallen on it.
"Mom's 'medicine' makes her forget about me. I wish I could make her happy like it does."
My stomach dropped as I realized what Rex was referring to. His mother's addiction, casting a long shadow over his childhood. I thought of the little boy, watching his mother slip away, powerless to bring her back.
As I delved deeper into the album, his inner turmoil became more apparent. One entry, written in slightly neater handwriting, stood out.
