Page 23 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

No.

NO. NO. NO. NO.

My blood rushes through my heart, almost stopping as a sob wrecks through me, recognizing the meaning behind the words. Something inside me tears. Not a slow rip, but a violent, gutting tear that leaves nothing intact. I heave, falling to my hands, bile choking me. My stomach revolts, my body shaking so hard it feels like I’m coming apartat the seams.

“NO. NOOO.”

The room spins, and everything is still black. Still blind. Still trapped. I can’t hear what he says, not even when he removes the blindfold and the world comes into view. Nothing registers. Nothing makes sense.

All I can focus on are the brown waves. The shape of her. The blood on my hands.

“Beautiful,” is all he says before I lunge at him, desperation making my movements reckless. Pain blinding me, consuming me.

Ren only laughs, clapping every time he dodges me. Like this is a game. Like my grief is something to be amused by.

“Focus, B,” he taunts, standing there like I’m some fucking portrait. Like I’m something new and fascinating.

“It’s not Gabriela,” he whispers, the words slow and deliberate, pulling me back just enough to make me look. To make me face the truth. Ren helps me focus on the dead woman in front of me, removingthe mask so I can see her face.

And my knees buckle, causing me to fall.

Because I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

I thought I could control something. I thought I could win.

I couldn’t save my sister.

Because I can’t even save myself. The world tilts sideways, and I hit the ground too hard, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I thought I was playing his game. That I could outthink him, outmaneuver him. But I never had a chance. Not when the board was already set, and I was just another fucking piece.

Chapter Twelve

Ren

“Byron...” I look at the man in front of me laying on the ground like a child weeping for a mother. “It was a lesson.” Seriously, can he not see that the masterpiece he created is not his sister. Gabriela is safe, away from the darkness. This was just a canvas, someone to show him the way, to pull him under long enough to understand. I thought he would understand like I did. I swallow the lump in my throat, and slowly, I creep towards him, each footstep feeling heavier as I step in the blood pooling in the room.

All I see is red. My hands. The floor.

“RED,” I whisper as I clutch my hair.

“Red. What?” The knife falls from my hand as I step back to look at her before doubling over to puke. “Did I do?”

Confusion.

So many unfamiliar sensations and emotions overtake me. I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins. Everything is bleeding into everything else as I stare at the open gashes on her stomach. It’s so... so much. The smell is thick, sweet, and suffocating. It clings to the back of my throat and seeps into my skin. I cut down what made me sick but I think this made me terminal. The small, almost translucent body part that sticks out from the abomination within her. A small, almost translucent limb twitches from the gaping wound, slick with blood. I puke again, not able to stomach looking at her face or the remains within her. My hands are sweaty, my heart beats uncontrollably, my ears ring, and all I can see is red.

RED.

RED.

All fucking red.

My mother laid on the bed, staining the white comforter and tiles... Staining the room as much as she stained my life. My vision blurs. Using my arm, the part not covered in crimson, I wipe away whatever is clouding my vision but it still blurs. It burns. I can’t breathe, and then I feel it—an unfamiliar reaction.

I feel the warmth sliding down my face. It doesn’t make sense.

It shouldn’t be me.

I don’t do this.

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