Page 8 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

“Gabby.”

She just begins to sob, a broken, choked sound that rattles inside my skull. Her hand moves to the gash on her throat, blood pouring between her fingers, dark and endless. The only noise coming from her is a silent scream, lips parted, eyes wide, but nothing escapes except the sick, wet gurgling sound of her drowning in her own blood.

That’s when I see the masked figure…

Standing just beyond the haze. Still. Watching.

I’m sure it’s Ren. It has to be.

I want it to be.

“GABRIELA,” I shout, but my voice is breaking, shaking, unrecognizable. I scream over and over until my voice grows hoarse, until it feels like I’ve been screaming for years, until it feels like it will never be enough. My knees crumble from the weight of my pain as I collapse onto them, my hands sinking into the blood, its warmth seepinginto my skin as my nails scraping against something solid beneath it. Bone.

“HELP ME,” a voice whispers from behind, so close that I feel the breath on my ear–cold and damp.

Cold hands wrap around me. I try to turn, my body tensing as the instinct to fight kicks in, but it’s useless. The hands dig in deeper, their grip bruising, unshakable.

I can’t move.

I can’t run.

They keep me staring at the body of my sister.

“HELP.”

Can she see that I can’t? That I tried? That I failed?

The realization slams into me, ripping through my stomach like a punch. My body spasms as I heave, emptying the contents of my stomach. My airway constricts as the cold hands wrap around my neck, tightening, squeezing, stealing the last of my breath.

“Breathe.”

But I can’t.

How the fuck am I supposed to breathe?

The cold woman’s hands throw me to the ground with force, the impact jolting through my spine, the weight of her pressing down. My hands move to my throat, desperate, clawing, nails digging into my own skin as I try to break free.

I still can’t breathe.

Choking on my vomit, drowning in it, gasping for something that won’t come. Through the blur of my vision, shapes twist and shift—dark, wrong. Then I see her.

Theresita.

She kneels before me, expression unreadable, like something carved from stone. Turning my body to the side, her grip unyielding, her touch cold but sure. Then—a hard slap to my back, pain exploding across my ribs.

“BREATHE.”

I wake up spluttering, vomit spewing from my mouth and nose, burning my throat as I choke on the taste. My body shivers from the cold, a bone-deep chill that refuses to leave me. Opening my eyes, I see nothing. Nothing but darkness. The smell ofpiss, vomit, and mildew fills the air–thick, suffocating, making me gag all over again.

“Re—“ I begin to call for him, but the name dies on my lips.

I know it’s no use.

There’s no saving me.

He’s back.

Back to end what he started.

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