Page 1 of His Coveted Obsession

Four Years Ago - Washington, DC

ItbeganafterIturned eight years old.

Mother had always been a drunk, and Father only cared about running his crime syndicate, which made my family extremely wealthy. But as Father was dragged away more often, committing his crimes for profit, Mother drank more.

Then the touching started. Did it come from loneliness or something more sinister? I couldn’t measure it, and I never asked. When you’re a scared child, knowing something is wrong, you make yourself silent and small. But they always see you—every single time.

Mother would start drinking in the late morning, but she spaced it out through the day enough to remain relativelycoherent, but she was drunk enough to push back her morals and boundaries, if she ever had any. I doubted she cared. She married a criminal, after all. I was conceived from evil.

I rarely saw Father, so I was only around my mother, tutor, nanny, and two servants who lived in the house with me. They all knew. They had to have known. How could they not?

Her touches started simply, and I made no note of them at first. I never thought of them as anything more than a mother’s touch. She started with a kiss on my throat. Or I would sit on her lap, and her hand would be nestled too closely between my legs. At the time, I assumed she simply loved me. She told me as much. No warning bells sounded in my brain when it all began.

After I turned nine, she stumbled into my room one night as I slept. She claimed she had a nightmare and needed her little boy to comfort her. After crawling under the covers with me, her hand slid into my pajama bottoms, and she touched me down there.

That was when I knew the wrongness of it. But I trusted her. I believed she was allowed to touch me, being my mother. Deep down, the alarm bells sounded as I tried to convince myself that what she was doing was right.

That night, she passed out and nothing more happened, but as time went on, she grew bolder. She also grew angrier when I stopped complying.

I still felt the sting on my face when I wouldn’t let her touch me.

I’d been previously diagnosed with high-functioning autism. While I could learn my studies just fine, my father insisted that he hire a special tutor for me. He was the only one I trusted. He was kind. It was him I told of my discomfort about my mother.He confronted her, but she immediately fired him and threatened legal action. Then she beat me for it enough so that I never dared speak out again. I lost track of how long I’d been bedridden.

When I complied, the beatings stopped for the most part. But sometimes compliance wasn’t enough. Mother loved marking and touching me. She grew obsessed with it. No one stopped her, so she grew bolder and bolder.

If Father were around and saw my bruised face, she would lie smoothly, and I would eagerly agree with her lies.

Over the years, I withdrew. Any sense of love or happiness had long since vanished. Eventually, I just stopped caring when she came to my room and did things. I let her in my silence, getting lost in my mind.

Eventually, it escalated to me touching her in return and fucking her. My dick got hard, but I felt nothing. She became just a vessel—an object.

Seven years later, I stood naked, bathed in my mother’s blood as I stared at her corpse. I didn’t know what finally triggered me. What was the final line in the sand? All I felt was this bubbling rage when she finished with me, like the anger had built and built, growing into an unstable nuclear reactor, until it finally exploded.

When she passed out, I headed to the kitchen, grabbed our sharpest knife, and killed her.

Thirty-seven.

That was how many times I stabbed her, the last one being a long cut across her throat. I watched her gurgle and convulse as the life went out of her.

I’d never seen so much blood in my life. For the first time in years, I experienced pleasure. Joy. My hand ran through her poolof blood, and I stamped it on my face. The stench of copper was almost nauseating, but I took a deep breath of it. I would never forget the smell and gore, and I would forever relish in my mother’s demise.

Still naked and covered in blood, I headed downstairs to slaughter the servants and my nanny. They knew. Of course they did. They chose their jobs over me.

Perhaps Father shouldn’t have taught me to use knives, a bow, and martial arts. He wanted me to protect myself since the people he dealt with were shady at best. So much for his protection. He never protected me fromher.

Once I’d killed everyone in the house, I headed to my room and walked into my ensuite. The blood covering my body filled me with a strange sort of pleasure. All those who harmed me or were complicit were dead.

All but one.

He would pay soon enough.

I took a long shower, scrubbing off all the blood, which took a long time because some of it had dried, and some of it was sticky. When the water finally ran clear, I stepped out and dried off.

I opened the door to my walk-in closet and pulled out my favorite suit in charcoal gray. I paired it with a crisp white button-up, a burgundy-colored tie, and leather shoes, also in a dark burgundy.

After I got dressed, I straightened my tie and smoothed out the jacket with my hands as I stared into the mirror. With a quick fix of my hair, I sat on the edge of my bed and waited until it was seven in the morning, three hours away.

I glanced at my watch, and when it read seven, I pulled out my phone and called for the family driver. Then I stood on the stoop of the house and awaited his arrival.

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