Page 3 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

“Dude, I was cleaning up an infected dick,” he deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest while disgust flickers across his face.

“He’s suing your estate. Tell me you’ve got a way out of this shit. I mean, what I did for you wasn’t cheap.”

There it is—the real reason. Money.

I exhale slowly, keeping my face blank. He doesn’t need to know how prepared I am. Thankfully, I alwaysthink ahead. I have money outside the country—buried in cash, crypto hidden under false companies. Enough to disappear if I need to.

But I won’t tell Kevin that. Not yet. Not while I’m weak. Not when my masterpiece isn’t finished yet.

I need to have some form of worth. If I don’t, I’m disposable, and no one keeps dead weight around. My eyes remain on Kevin as he looks at me for an answer, and I understand now how he figured me out. He isn’t quite like me—but in some ways, he’s worse. An opportunist. Sure, you could argue that I’m no better, but I own what I am. I’m a monster in my category, and that’s a rat. Opportunist, but I would rather not die. Not after being granted the opportunity to live.

“Did you hear me?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and impatient.

I dip my chin. “I did. I have enough to help pay for your troubles.”

That’s all I say, but it’s enough. Kevin uncrosses his arms, kicks his feet out, and relaxes into the chair.

“He’s all over the news like some national hero.”

Mmm. Of course, he is. My Thorn, basking in the light while I drown in the dark, but it’s okay, I can swim and adapt. Could he do the same? Or would he drown?

“How long was I under?”

Kevin clears his throat. “It’s been weeks, Ren. You were in bad shape. That wasn’t me exaggerating. At one point, I thought I’d have to put you out of your misery.”

He should have.

Later, he’d realize the consequences of his mistake. I’ve been asleep for weeks while my Thorn has been living and thriving—without me.

Why do I care? I don’t know.

Call it possessiveness. Call it obsession. It doesn’t matter.

He’s mine.

And I’ll make sure he never forgets that.

Chapter Two

Byron

Idrive down the street, the same road I’ve come to learn... to memorize. The gravel crunches beneath the truck’s tires as I pull into the driveway. Nothing is pristine... clean like him. Ren’s pristine and elegant home has been vandalized more times than I can count. It’s like a circus, especially during those first couple of weeks after the incident. It was always packed with reporters, people wanting to get famous for visiting the home of the Laguna Bay Painter. But me... I was here for very different reasons—reasons I don’t even understand myself. Not even the yellow tape, the warningsfrom the state... not even the fear of him being out there kept me away.

Grabbing the bag with the tacos and beer, I open the door of the truck and step out into the night. Tonight was rough—emotionally and mentally. The meetings should be helping... Being with Johnathan should be helping... My sister being safe and happy in Montana should be helping.

So why do I feel so empty?

Why do I feel like I left something in this fucking studio... with Ren. Something I can’t get back... and the worst part is I don’t even know what it is that I’m missing. I’m not sure what I need or what I’m looking for, but for some reason, here is where I don’t feel like some kind of prop. It’s a cold, rainy night. Tonight, I was supposed to be on a date with Johnathan. He’s done nothing but give... and all while I have shit to give back. I take a lot—like Ren. Grabbing the beer from the bag and opening it before taking a swig, I wish I could mean my words and wasn’t a fraud... but here we are.

My phone dings somewhere in the truck, but I don’t bother to check it. Closing the truck door, I make my way up the driveway and toward the back. I don’t feel scared now. I would be lying if I said I didn’t before either, but now it’s become routine. At first, I expected to find him here... to make him pay... but now I just come here for silence. Somewhere to sit with my guilt.

As usual, the door to the studio is wide open. Garbage litters the outside, and just like the inside of the house, everything is broken, littered, and none of his artwork remains. Everything was taken for evidence, and anything that wasn’t was destroyed by the people in town.

What they did find... was my foreskin. I chuckle at the thought as I step into the studio. The fucking asshole kept my foreskin in a fucking jar. I still don’t know how to feel about it, or about the piercing in my gooch which I left untouched as a reminder that I survived.

And then there’s the painting—done in blood—of my fucking face...

I don’t know if I should feel grateful that his obsession saved not only my life but Gabby’stoo. But I don’t, which is another reason I come here—to remind myself of the ones who didn’t make it out. No matter how badly people destroy this space—urinate, defecate—I can still smell the blood... the bleach.

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