Page 24 of Compulsion

It suits her flair for whimsy.

I think about the pink and gold unicorn pin that’s a constant presence on her apron. Otherwise, various anthropomorphic cartoon foodstuffs seem to be on regular rotation amongst her badges. I’ve noted a cupcake, an iced coffee, a donut, and even a frowning broccoli.

There are two similar food-related pieces on her dresser alongside the figurines and neon sign, but these smiling toys are plush and stuffed with cotton wool. I brush my fingers over a velvet-soft avocado and a little pod of happy peas.

They’re mildly ridiculous, but I can’t help finding them fascinating. They’re childish toys for a woman in her mid-twenties, but Abigail seems to be an exception in so many ways. There’s a fragility beneath her cheery, sunshine smiles and shy glances, and although she doesn’t know it, I’ve glimpsed an alluring darkness at her core that calls to my own.

A bizarre desire to shelter and covet that sunshine girl wars with my craving to shatter her cheerful façade and reveal her darkest secrets.

My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the soft fabric of her paint-splattered camisole.

I force my fingers to unfurl and turn my attention back to her bedroom.

There’s a stack of books that can’t be contained by her small nightstand. The bedroom isn’t big enough for a proper bookshelf, but there must be at least three dozen titles in a haphazard array beside her bed.

I shake my head at the mess, but my disapproval of her disorganized nature doesn’t stop me from thumbing through the books. I recognize some of the more popular titles, and I get a sense that she enjoys fantasy novels with heavy romantic elements.

On her nightstand, a copy ofThe Invisible Life of Addie LaRueis well-worn, as though she’s read it several times. I checkthe book quickly, searching for any signs that she bought it secondhand.

No price stickers or penciled dollar amount on the interior.

It’s likely that she’s the one who damaged the binding while indulging in the story over and over again.

My touch lingers on the fine cracks that mar the spine, and I think about her long, elegant fingers caressing her beloved book.

This is what I came for, the reason I broke in. I’ve discovered one of her secrets, and I will leverage this vulnerability to my advantage.

I set the book down and turn to the final space in her apartment that I have yet to explore: her closet.

I grasp the small knob and have to tug it sharply to open the ill-fitted, shuttered door. After a stuck moment, it snaps toward me. Something lightweight but rigid falls forward, colliding with my thigh.

I curse softly and catch the canvases before they fall to the floor.

There’s a stack of them packed into the closet, and they’re about to tip over into the bedroom. Carefully, I tilt them back so that they rest against the interior wall.

There are only a few extra dresses tucked away in here. The space is dominated by more paintings that are stacked on three shelves. There must be scores of them hidden in darkness.

That irritating sensation gnaws at my gut again. This time, I don’t suppress it. I choose to indulge myself and sate my curiosity.

I pick up three of the larger canvases and place them on her bed. No one will see me through the bedroom window if I use the light on my phone. The building next door is mere feet away, close enough to touch if I were to open the window. There aren’t any vantage points to see into this room from outside.

My phone illuminates the first painting, and my breath catches.

Rough hemp rope digs into soft flesh. Her thigh cushions the bindings in creamy pillows, as though welcoming the painful bonds to sink deeper.

Another painting shows her delicate wrist, abraded from rope that’s been recently removed. The ecstatic high of release after being cruelly bound is evident in the gentle furl of her long fingers: blissful relaxation in the wake of being utterly devastated.

The third depicts a gloved hand encircling her pale throat, the black leather in shocking contrast to her creamy skin. Thick fingers sink into her neck beneath the soft taper of her jaw, restricting the blood flow through her carotid arteries. Her rosebud lips are parted—a gasp for air and a plea for further torment.

I’m not sure how long I indulge myself in her art, drinking in her twisted fantasies that match my own.

Abigail is perfect for me. I know that I can fulfil her darkest desires. She’s kept them secret from everyone, choosing to hide them away in her closet where no one can see her true artistic brilliance.

Does she hide them even from herself? Is that why her walls are devoid of art, and she keeps her masterpieces shrouded in shadows?

I revel in the gnawing sensation that torments me almost to the point of physical pain. This…feelingis a gift only she can give me. The semblance of emotion might be cruelly possessive—and maybe even a little malicious—but I learned to accept my monstrous nature a long time ago. With Abigail, I can fully indulge my darkest urges.

I just have to seduce her first.

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