Page 33 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

“No. You intrigue me. I cut down my sickness—love. It made me weak, a servant to someone else’s will, and I ripped it off.”

His hand wraps around the back of my neck, turning me to face him. We both stare at one another.

“Why won’t you rip out yours? Gut it. End it all?” he asks, and there’s emotion in those voids; it may just be confusion, but there’s at least something. And I wonder how much pain his mother had inflicted on him to create such a void.

“You can’t rip out love, Ren,” I say, before weakly pulling away and grabbing the bottle of body wash. Squeezing it onto the washcloth left there, his scent fills the air—cedar, linen, and bourbon. Evenhis fucking body wash smells rich and arrogant. I couldn’t escape him, not even to breathe.

“I’ll prove you can,” Ren whispers behind me, before I hear his footsteps, then the sound of the door opening and closing. I let out a shaky breath, pressing the washcloth into the white tile. I lean my forehead on it, pressing hard as I look down at my erection.

I’m grateful that he spared me from further humiliation, but angry at my traitorous body that craves his pain and torture. After a few minutes, I’m able to catch my breath, regulate the rhythm of my heart, and calm my thoughts. But no matter how much I scrub my body, I still feel filthy... rotten... ruined.

Turning off the water, afraid I’ll pass out in the shower, I grab the white towel left for me and dry my body. Shuffling toward the bathroom door, I’m surprised to find the knob turns freely. It’s not locked.

I step into the hall and hear humming—like a siren’s call. I follow the sound, leading me to a door. The door to his studio.

My hand trembles as I reach for the handle. My chest tightens. The world goes quiet except for the rush of blood in my ears. Then the sound of Radiohead’s“Man of War”fills the air while Ren hums it.

I remain frozen in front of the door. Slowly, I turn the knob and open it. Ren doesn’t flinch. He sits naked on the floor on top of a clear plastic tarp that covers the wooden floorboards, and he’s covered in crimson.

How long was I in the shower? It couldn’t have been more than five minutes. Bile rushes up my throat as I take in the sight leaving me speechless.

“You inspired me, and you’re too weak to carve,” he says, as he continues to slice off tiny pieces of flesh making what seems like a macabre ying yang symbol. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not right to stare.” Finally he looks away from his carving. “Talk.”

But what can I say. How do I rationalize what I’m looking at? My brain takes a moment to catch up, but when it does, it hits me like a bulldozer. Knocks the breath out of me as my eyes clash with blue, puffy,familiar ones.

Johnathan.

He lies on the ground—bloody, carved, trapped within his own body, and pieces of him are missing. I look at Ren, who continues to carve, resting his chin over his hand, lazily dragging the scalpel across Johnathan’s side.

“How long?” I ask.

“Long enough,” he answers nonchalantly, not bothering to look my way. I’m not a threat to him.

My focus goes back to Johnathan. Tears stream down the side of his face. His eyes pleading. Begging.

I don’t think. I move on autopilot.

I walk toward the cart that stores Ren’s supplies and pick up another scalpel. Ren stops, looking at me through his lashes as I walk toward Johnathan. I give him a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth, holding back tears and cementing my decision. Pressing the scalpel under his jaw, I slice, making sure I go deep enough to kill him.

My eyes remain on Jonathan’s, not caring what happens to me for destroying Ren’s creation.

“Don’t move,” Ren whispers.

I hear the tarp shuffle, and from the corner of my eye, I watch him pull out a sketchbook and lean against the wall.

“This is fucking perfect, Thorn. Perfect.”

My hands beg to release the knife at Jonathan’s throat. I silently beg to not watch him choke on his blood. Instead I remain staring at his eyes desperately begging for help that will never come.

I watch as the man who tried to help me heal is destroyed, and I was the one who held the blade that turned off his light. Those vibrant blues dull— as he gargles on wet breath in. The pressure of my hand cuts deeper without me realizing. My vision blurs and I try to blink away the tears be anywhere but here.

“Don’t move. Just let me get the basics,” Ren says, before resuming his sketch. “So many emotions. You are truly magical.”

“Fuck you,” I seethe, pulling away from Johnathan, who is long dead, and chucking the bloody scalpel into the wall.

Ren watches me as I losemy shit.

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