But they contacted her. They sent her a letter. They never send letters to anyone but me, so if I am to do what is needed, to protect her even at the cost of my life, I need to make sure this is not just a pathetic game for her.
Azrael: Either they stop, or I’ll kill every one of them myself.
Vincent: Noted.
I set the phone down and pour a measure of whiskey. The situation has become more complicated than I anticipated it to be, and the little experiments have no clue what they’ve just started.
This, alongside the experiment, could spiral into catastrophe or become the climax of everything I’ve done with her.
Now the question is: what will be the end of Victoria’s experiment? What I initially planned for my little ember doesn’t seem suitable anymore, considering I’d rather kill myself than see her dead. So what exactly does this text message mean?
I spend the next few hours thinking, trying to come up with whatever would be hard enough on her that she will finally get to feel something relevant, but also make sure it’s soft enough that she’ll never push me away again.
I run through thousands of ideas, most of them useless. The ones that somehow hold potential will probably destroy her psychologically even more. No matter how long I try to think of an alternative, there is only one option that will prove she’s mine while also giving her what she wants.
It’s decided.
This plan would spiral with anyone else. But with Victoria, it might actually work. Only one person who would understand this outcome just as much as I do, and that is her. She will not run away. The most it would do is to make her hate me, and hate, above everything, is an intense feeling.
Once that’s been locked and the plan is concluded, I spiral right back into the idiotic train of thoughts I fell into this morning after I left her place.
She is literally consuming every inch of my mind. Every corner of my brain reeks of her. Her lips—parted, wrecked, begging to be used. Her body—marked in bruises only I have the right to leave. Her scent—sweat, sex, and something darker. She has fucked everything else for me.
In the midst of all this, I am not repulsed by what happened. In fact, this is probably the best turn of events. Everything feels normal again, I don’t feel like pushing the limits, I don’t feel like going to The Place anymore. In fact, all I want is to run back to her place and forget I need to exist anywhere besides next to her, ever again.
That, however, would be psychotic, even for me, so I just follow my routine, feeling back in control. Lacing my shoes, I strap in for the five-mile run, and the short coffee stop. Or maybe I should just go to—No!
When I finally get back home from my run that just so happened to be a circle around her building—thirty-seven fucking times!— and shower, it’s almost time for my lecture.
I sit at my desk and open the file for today’s lecture. Nietzsche, perfect. Maybe I can channel his vicious clarity to scrape her out of my head for a second, enough to let my brain rest. And this plan works for exactly zero seconds. My notes—usually pristine—look meaningless. My thoughts are all about her body, her moans and her fucking name burned into my skull. Is this what it means to be obsessed?
The thought follows me out of the apartment, down the corridor, and across campus. I keep my face expressionless, nodding to a few colleagues mechanically. The air is cool, and the sky is painfully pale blue, just like her eyes, following me everywhere I go.
By the time I get to the lecture hall, I’m ready to finish the lecture before it even starts. I haven’t seen her since thismorning, and I’m craving her like an addict in withdrawal. She will be in the room, and I’m considering the possibility of canceling that useless class just to spend somequalitytime with her.
That feeling lasts precisely three seconds until I scan the room for her. Her seat, empty. The time she usually arrives has passed already. The room is half full, but she is not in sight.
My stomach twists with rage because of course, of fucking course she’d pull something like this.
This is her power play, a way of reminding me I’m not in control. That no matter how clear my confession to her is, how clear I make it she’s mine and she can’t run away again, she’ll always find a way to stay just out of reach.
So last night was a performance? A game to see how fucking desperate I am for her?
She likes seeing me obsessed with her, just for the fun of it? Just so she can laugh a little? Wherever she is right now, I can feel it. She’s smirking, laughing at me. Testing how far she can pull my strings before I snap.
Spoiler, sweetheart:you’re out of rope.
I clench my jaw and set my materials down harder than I should have, smashing the papers onto the desk. The students eye me strangely, but nobody dares to question what is happening. Some look tired, some hungover, oblivious to the fact that they just got the privilege of experiencing the lecture of the century.
I start the lecture, keeping my voice calm. If she can hear me, she won’t notice the damage she is doing. The lecture notes are useless. Nihilism is what she wants, and that’s exactly what she’ll get.
Halfway into the lecture, and she’s still not here. But the stupid transcriber-obsessed students in front of me look almostrepulsed by my borderline macabre concept, and that only feeds me even more. I want chaos.
By the time the lecture has only thirty minutes left, I’m back in control, ready to fuck her again and again and again until the only sound she’d make is my name. She has way too much power over me, and I’m not a giving person, she needs to be just as obsessed.
I move to my desk, voice on autopilot, letting my brain contemplate all the pain and pleasure she will soon endure.
And that’s when I feel it. Not see. Feel. Breath. Fingers moving on my thighs, straight to my zipper. Undoing said zipper.Don’t move don’t move don’t fucking move.