Page 19 of Driving My Obsession

Her bedroom is at the very back of the house. The bathroom stands right beside it, and its open door allows the mouth-watering scent of her shower to fill the backside of her home. I peek inside, but continue to her bedroom when I don’t see anything of interest.

My lips form a tight line as my gaze falls on her unmade bed. Rumpled blankets and random pillows lie across the mattress. How does she not feel like her mess of a life isn’t more so when she climbs into this travesty each night? I roll my eyes.

After scanning the rest of the room, I stop at the closet door. When I open it, it’s just as messy as her bed. I flick the racks down the rod and find a few nice shirts, but most of the options are skanky and scandalous. The nauseating amount of sequins and glittering fabrics burns my eyes. And fuck me, they stink. Not even an acid bath could rid them of the stench of that club. I rip down every shirt and bra set that has so clearly been designed to display her body. My knife blade emerges with a flick of my wrist, and I slice through the fabric. Straps, sequins, and clasps fall to my feet in a heap of glorious destruction.

She’ll have nothing to dance in tomorrow. I cut the whore off at the head.

I spot a garment bag near the back of the closet and pull it into the light. I unzip the side of the bag and remove its contents: a pale pink leotard and a tutu. The leotard is familiar. It’s the same one she wore in the photo attached to that article about her. My hand reaches for the blade I’ve tucked back on my hip, but I stop myself. Cutting this into pieces would probably hurt her, but I know what would do even more damage to her psyche.

I take a hanger from the closet and use it to attach the leotard to the back of her bedroom door, right over the mirror. She’s sure to see it here. When she does, it will be another reminder of her fall from grace.

I toss the empty garment bag on top of the destroyed slut suits and make my way to her dresser. Makeup and hair products litter the smooth wooden top. More mess. Pulling open a drawer, I discover a treasure trove of panties. My fingers run through the river of lace, silk, and mesh in search of something more alluring. I find what I seek near the bottom—a pair of simple cotton panties that are more akin to shorts than the stringy offerings surrounding them. I imagine the way the fabric would hug the curve of her ass, hiding more than it shows. Nothing slutty about these panties. I tuck them into my pocket.

Finding nothing of interest in the remaining drawers, I return to the living room to bid farewell to my target and leave her a parting gift. As I kneel beside the couch, I notice her phone beside my foot. I pick up the device and turn it on. It asks for her fingerprint, which is easy enough. I press her limp thumb against the screen, and it springs to life.

To the gentle sound of each breath rolling past her parted lips, I scroll through her texts, reliving the turmoil she experienced in my car. I swell with pride over the bitter anger woven through her mother’s words—venom meant to maim. If she didn’t like her daughter before, she probably hates her now.

I close the text message screen and open the internet browser, immediately pulling up an article about a theater production. Scanning the text, I spot a familiar name, though I can’t place it. Then it dawns on me. This is the girl who caused the accident that sidelined Oaklyn. It looks like my plan has worked better than expected. She’s been digging at her own wounds.

Guilt nibbles at my insides, but I ignore it. I have no reason to feel guilty. She’s not worth it.

I read the text messages one more time to remind myself of the joy this brings me, then I place the phone on the coffee table and turn my attention to her. She looks so sweet compared to how she looked in that video. Without the makeup, the deadness in her eyes, and the slutty fucking outfits. When she can’t make those whore noises. I breathe in her scent. It’s nothing like the club. It’s fragrant, almost fruity. My fingers wind through her hair, parting the silky strands. Having dried, they’ve taken on the red glow again. My cock hardens against my zipper.

I swing her arm over my shoulder and lift her from the couch. She doesn’t stir and if it weren’t for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I’d wonder if she were dead. A wobbly bar stool nearly tips over as I carry her toward her bedroom. I catch it with my foot and right it before it hits the floor. When I reach her bedroom, I lay her on the strewn blankets and sit beside her. I don’t intend to fuck her, though. I intend to kill her.

Her skin—just as soft as I imagined—presses against my knuckles as I bring the blade to her throat. I could end her so easily right now. But it’d betooeasy. She wouldn’t fight or flail or feel any of the gashes I’d paint on her flesh. She’d be as innocent as I was when my mother attacked me. I thought I’d like the ease of her being asleep, but it’s not what my little black heart wants.

It’s just not enough.

Or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself.

Ending her shouldn’t be this difficult for me, but I find a reason to stay my hand at every turn. Something about her makes me reconsider. What is it?

I study her face and lean over to brush the hair from her cheeks. Warm skin meets my fingertips. Thick lashes frame the seams of her eyelids. If they were open, would I see the dead stare she wears when she’s in the club? Or would they come alive?

Every breath raises her chest before letting it fall once more. I’m mesmerized by the motion. Even though I’ve seen them, I long to pull down the thin cami and expose her breasts. My hand moves on its own and pulls down the neckline. Her tits are even more beautiful when they aren’t coated in sweat and glitter. When wandering hands aren’t exploring them.

A low growl leaves my throat, and the sound catches me off guard. Why should I care who touches her? I sure as fuck don’t want to.

That’s a lie. My cock isn’t throbbing like this because I don’t want to touch her. The naked truth is that I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around the tits I weaponized against her in the video to her mother. I want to touch her. I want to—

Don’t,I scold myself.We don’t fuck whores.

Maybe I can pretend she’s not the thing I hate.

Or...maybe I’ll fuck her exactly like the thing I hate.

I pull my cock from my pants and stand up. Once I’ve stripped the clothing from the lower half of her body, her perfect pussy makes me forget all about her profession. I toss her pants to the side and hook my hands around her thighs to pull her toward me. My cock twitches against her slit. I lean over her and fill my hands with her tits, reddening the skin as I squeeze. Unwilling to respond to my touch, her nipples remain flaccid. Her nerve endings are as oblivious as she is, unable to register that I’m touching her at all. I drop one hand from her chest and push my fingers inside her pussy. She’s not wet, but I don’t need her to be. The warmth is enough.

“I should use a condom because you’re a whore, huh?” I ask, even though she can’t answer. And even though I have no plans to put a barrier between us. I want to know what she feels like. I rub my cock—the only part of my body that is free of scars—along her slit. “With you out like this, you can’t judge my scars. You can’t judge me at all.”

It’s been so long since I’ve fucked someone. Their silent judgment makes it almost impossible, and it’s not something I’m imagining. They all want the man in the ring until the man in their bed becomes the grotesque figure they can’t look in the eye. But my tragedy can’t judge me. She’s painfully vulnerable to my carnal desires.

My hatred.

My hands slide over her hips and rake the scars on her thighs. The hum of understanding vibrates through the rough tissue, each mark a permanent memory etched into us.

I draw back my hips and push inside her. Though I’m met with resistance and friction, I don’t stop. I tear my tragedy in two, ripping her apart physically this time. A feral groan leaves my lips because I’m wearing the embodiment of my anger on my dick and fucking the painful memories of my past.

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