Page 22 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

“Now create, use all that pent-up anger.” His hands massage my shoulders as he leans in closer, taking a nibble from my ear, his breath too warm, too steady, like this is intimate. Like this is normal.

“Show me what you can do, Byron. Showme the dark.”

He pulls away, then within moments, he opens my hand. His touch is slow, deliberate while tracing the lines of my palm like he’s reading something in them. A map. A prophecy. Then a cold, thin object meets my hand. A scalpel. No mistaking it, no denying it, and no escaping what he’s about to make me do.

My hands quiver as they close around it. Tight, then loose, then tight again, like my body is unsure of what to do. I could end it all, and I consider it. One clean slice, one moment of courage, and this could all be over.

“A rose is so fragile when the thorns aren’t on the stem to protect it. So easy to pluck.”

And my stomach drops. My mind drifts far away as my hands feel for the warmth, fingers ghosting over something too soft, too real. I find it. Skin, trembling. Jasmine and iron choke me, twisting in my lungs, making me want to puke.

With shaky hands, I make the first cut because it’s better her than my sister. Because I don’t have a choice. Because Ren already decided for me.

I’m sorry. I think it over and over, but the words never reach my lips. My hand moves over and over, cutting and tracing. A sick rhythm. A dance. Thankful that at least I can’t hear anything but low, feeble grunts and the rush of blood in my ears.

“Amazing,” Ren coos. His hand moves down my arm as he guides it. Like I need help, like I’m not already doing exactly what he wanted.

“You’re gonna love it.”

I’m not, and we both know it.

But I comply because this is what he wants. Because this is what survival looks like now.

I don’t know how long I carve up the person before me. Time doesn’t exist here, only the weight of the blade and the pull of flesh beneath it. All I know is the scalpel feels heavy. My hands are sweaty and sticky from the blood.

“End it. End her misery.”

Ren removes the scalpel from my hand and helps wrap my fingers around a delicate throat. Too easy. Too practiced. Like he’s done this a thousandtimes before.

I take in a deep breath, but it stutters in my throat. My fingers tremble against the delicate skin, hovering—just for a second—like I can still choose. Like I still have control.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t force myself to end it. I wasn’t a killer... I’m not. I’m not. I can’t be.

“What’s holding you back, Byron?”

Ren’s arms wrap around me, his chin resting on my shoulder. A cage. A whisper of something worse.

“End it. End the pain. The shame. End it all.”

My hands wrap tighter. A slow squeeze. A test. A moment of hesitation before something inside me cracks.

And I hear the faintest sound. A whimper. A last, useless fight.

Despite all that was done to her, she tries to fight, but there’s no use. There’s no mercy here. My hands grip her neck tighter and tighter.

I can hear the way Ren’s breathing picks up.

“That’s it, my Thorn, show me the dark.”

And I do. Because I already lost.

Ren moves from behind me, and I hear him frantically grabbing stuff, enthusiasm in every step. Like a child on Christmas morning. Like an artist finishing a masterpiece.

“Ahhh... Byron, you did it. Magnificent. Even better than I could have expected,” he coos behind me as a salty tear rolls down my nose and into my mouth. I squeeze long past the point of her being gone. Her pulse, once weak, is now nothing, but my hands refuse to let go.

Not until Ren is behind me. Not until he speaks.

“How did it feel to squeeze the light shielding you from the darkness?”

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