Page 75 of Obsessed Kings

Me:I miss you too

Nate:I hope you’re not having too much fun this semester

Me:Wdym

Nate:It’d be a shame to lose your value as a woman by fucking some dude who doesn’t deserve you. Like so many girls do freshman year

My stomach churns as I set my phone down. Why is my stepbrother such a creep?

When Mom was still alive, he was a loving stepbrother. He cared about me, played with me, and never spoke about my "value" as a woman.

When she passed away, something snapped within him. Or maybe that darkness was always there. Lurking under the covers and ready to pounce.

He’d sneak into my room when I was a teenage girl like a total sicko. A sick sensation wells up inside of me, lancing my heart and battering at the walls of my ribcage. He’d plop down on my bed, remove his towel, and act like nothing was the matter. If Dad had walked in, I have no doubt that Nate would’ve leapt off the bed and stammered like a little bitch. Because he knew that Dad was too foggy brained after Mom’s passing, he grew emboldened. He’d show me parts of his body and tell me that I could show him my body if I wanted, too. I never wanted to. The thought repulsed me. Still, he let me know the offer was there.

I burrow into my blanket, then lift up the letter that Colt left for me yesterday. It contains a poem.

Now, I’ll keep it real. I didn’t expect Colt to have any poetic talent. His aura is too dark for me to contemplate it.

Colt seems like the type who strangled bunnies in his free time growing up and painted the walls of his bedroom in his mother’s period blood. Don't ask me why that fucking mental image came to mind. It seems like something he’d do. The last thing I expected was for him to crank out this poem, one that shows the depth of his emotion for me. It’s incredible and beautiful.

In high school, I loved poetry. I was the girl in the back of the class who doodled images inspired by her favorite poets. The darker poets captured my attention the most. French poets who understood death.

Poems helped me process my mother’s passing. I realized that life goes on for everyone.

Rain won’t quit falling simply because your mother died. It’ll fall today. Tomorrow. Five years from now. A new generation of people will come into being.

This thought used to depress me. Then, I found comfort in it. There’s beauty in the stages of life.

Colt, Brock, and Rook ripped me out of the simple life I was living. I was on track to be forgotten like my mother. Now, all of Saintswood knows my name. Now, I’m shining like the star I was always meant to be. I’m not all the way where I want to be, but I’m getting there with my Kings. Even if the way I’m getting famous would make most girls lose their minds.

My eyes trace over Colt’s words yet again. His soul doesn’t contain a trace of light. Whatever happened in his past has relegated the feeling part of him mute. All he knows is destruction. Hurt. Pain. If he’s not making me cry, he isn’t alive.

Colt’s poem is beautiful.

you. my dick.

needs.

blood. knife.

autumn leaves swirling around your decapitated limbs.

i fuck. them.

you.

harder. HARDER.

This is art. Beauty. Passion.

My English teachers in high school would’ve given Colt an A+ for this one. Even if they wouldn’t have understood how his mind operated.

I barely understand it. Like Rina told me the other day, men like Colt, Brock, and Rook aren’t great with expressing their emotions. Maybe they have different types of emotions from ordinary men which is why they can’t talk about them. All I know is that his twisted obsession for me radiates from every word.

He didn’t capitalize any letters until the final word. I lose my ability to breathe as I realize how brilliant this is. The poem ends on a cymbal crash.HARDER.

This is what Beethoven did. Big destructive finales. Colt is the Beethoven of poetry.

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