Page 11 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

Turning off the water, I shuffle towards ,myroom, opening a drawer. My movements are automatic, rehearsed. I pull out sweats, but it’s not like I’ll be doing anything other than watching. Waiting. Planning.Always planning.

The burner phone I use to communicate with Kevin rings, and that sound is music to my ears. A sharp pulse of excitement runs through me, cutting through the fog in my mind. Quickly, I slip on the navy blue sweats, ignoring the water clinging to my skin, soaking into the fabric. There’s no point in drying off. Nothing matters but this.

I make my way to the office across the hall, the only space that truly feels like mine. Another piece of the puzzle, waiting to move.

“How’s the little bird?” I lean into the chair, fingers already steepled in front of me.

“Ready to fly.” Short. Efficient. That’s how I know he can’t talk too much or too long. I prefer it that way—brief, controlled, straight to the point.

The call ends, and I take my seat, exhaling slowly as I turn my gaze back to the screen. Continuing to place the pieces on the board. One move at a time.

My first lesson will happen in exactly five days. Five days of hunger, thirst, silence. Five days before the bodygives in. But he needs to be willing. It has to feel like a choice, even when there isn’t one.

Which will be no issue—for someone who needs to eat.

Sure, humans can survive a couple of days without eating, even drinking, but humans are creatures of need, and need is the easiest thingto control.

You don’t notice how time moves when you’re holding the leash. It feels slower, dragging on, stretching itself thin, teasing the moment before it snaps. Day one and two all he did was sleep. Useless, wasting away, letting the hunger gnaw athim like a beast with no teeth. By day four, he was too weak to even carry the waste bucket far enough away from him so the smell wouldn’t assault him. Good. Let it linger, let him sit in it. Let him learn that in order to survive me he will have to accept the darkness.

Now, here we are—day seven.

It’s a bright, chilly morning, and here I am, prepping an all-star breakfast. Not just for him, but for me too. I’m starving. But it’s not just hunger—it’s anticipation, buzzing under my skin, pooling in my gut, pressing against my ribs like something caged.

The last couple of days, I’ve done nothing but watch, plan, and wait. It’s been a slow unraveling, a careful game of restraint. Now, I get to see the first real shift. The first crack.

Anticipation hums through my body. Not just eagerness—something deeper, something vital. I’m eager to see how compliant he will be. How far he’s fallen. How much further I can push him.

For this lesson, we will do an art project. A simple lesson.

The first step in stripping him down completely.

Chapter Seven

Byron

Idon’t know what’s killing me faster—the smell in the bucket in the corner of the room or the hunger pangs that claw at my stomach. Each breath I take is filled with rot, thick and suffocating, pressing against my ribs like something living. The scent seeps into my skin, settles in my throat, refusing to leave. The darkness doesn’t bother me as much, but I hate being trapped like an animal. The walls feel closer as if the space is shrinking with each passing second. This is worse than prison, worse than anything I could have imagined. So bravo to him for making this dehumanizing. Hedidn’t just cage me. He stripped me down to nothing. He knew exactly what he was doing.

But my mind dissociates, and with hunger and thirst weakening me, all I’ve done is sleep. Drifting in and out, losing sense of time, and my body too frail to fight as my mind slips between nightmares and memories, between the past and the monster waiting for me. Maybe this is how I die—slow and painful, revisiting my childhood, my failures… my nightmares that replay over and over. Gabriela naked and bleeding.

Dead. Always dead.

I’m surrounded by my dead in this space, and I hate that more than anything. Their whispers crawl under my skin, slipping into my ear like a blade pressed against my skull. They taunt me, whispering my failures, carving their accusations into the walls. Taunting me that once again, I didn’t protect her. I failed her. Over and over until their voices bleed into my own. But being isolated has made me consider something I never would have before. Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. MaybeI was never meant to win. Maybe I don’t need to fight him. Fight this.

Instead, maybe I should give in.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I could close my eyes and let the void take me. Let it pull me under, carry me far away from my failures, from my shame… from this sick, gnawing need to see him again. To hear his voice, even if it’s only to break me further.

To feel him.

Because the truth is, it’s not fear that I have for Ren—it’s need. A raw, festering wound that refuses to close. Twisted. Sick. Deep enough to rot me from the inside out. I must be demented to crave the very thing that made me sick. But what can I say? Hunger is hunger. Craving is craving. Even when it kills you. Even when it rips your soul apart piece by piece.

Closing my eyes, I drift off to where he waits for me—the big bad wolf, waiting to consume me.

The sound of flesh falling to the ground snaps me back into the dream, but I know better. This isn’t a dream. Or maybeit is. Or maybe it never was. I watch as Ren carves into his victim, his knife humming, his hands steady. Steady in a way that makes my stomach turn. This time, familiar brown eyes look my way. Wide. Glassy. Unblinking.

Gabriela.

---