his dark obsession

untill death do us part

"Cream and sugar?" Jill asks, pouring fresh coffee into a mug for me. "Yes, please," I respond distractedly, too busy looking around and trying to wrap my head around this situation. Is this really happening? Am I really sitting in this upscale kitchen, surrounded by sparkling stainless steel appliances, with an older, seasoned woman who exudes a motherly vibe? It feels too strange to be real. I haven't felt a motherly affection from someone in so long it scares me how she acts with me; it feels nurturing in a way.

Jill adds a touch of cream and sugar, then slides the mug toward me. I pick it up, saying, "Thank you," and take a tentative sip. The coffee is hot, almost too hot, but the burn grounds me, reminding me I'm here, I'm safe.

As I set the mug back down, I notice the lettering on it: Coffee before bullshit. Yeah... Miss Jill is gangsta, no doubt about it.

"Angelmarie?" Jill says, concern etched on her face, pulling my attention back to her. "Are you okay? I've heard you had quite the day..."

I stare at her face for a moment, trying to determine if she's being sincere or just curious. She's older but quite beautiful, stunning really, even at 65. Even with her lips pulled down and her eyes narrowed with worry, I can't help but feel a pull to her, like I can talk to her, like really talk, and she'd listen.

"Yeah, Miss Jill, you can say that again. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, to be honest." I sigh and reach for the mug again. Jill's eyes flick down to the mug and back up to my face, the concerned look still firmly in place.

"Perhaps something a little stronger is in order?" she suggests, already standing and moving toward the cabinet. She bends down, rummaging through the bottles, and I hear the clink of glass. "I hope you're not a lightweight?"

"Nah, I don't mind drinking you under the table," I reply with a small laugh. Her politeness is replaced with a playful banter.

"Not even the men around here can do that. I've drunk that big brute Bullet into a corner and left him there till morning, but that's a story for another time," she says, laughing.

Why couldn't I have a mother like her? One that actually gives a shit. Oh well, I'd probably still turn out a fucking nutcase! My mind voices as I watch her blonde head reappear, and she walks back to me with a bottle of amber liquid clutched in her hand. Untwisting the lid, she tops off my mug and gives me a smile as she stirs her cup.

"Now, tell me how you and that knucklehead of a man, Vladimir, met," she asks before picking her mug back up and quickly gulping from it.

"We kinda just found each other, I guess. Deciding I don't need to bullshit her, I start from the beginning. I don't need to sugarcoat it to her; she seems like the mother figure to all the guys here.

"We met at a club I worked in at the time. I didn't know he owned it. One minute I'm on the dance floor, the next I found myself in his arms. To be honest, I tried running from him, not because I was scared of who he is or out of fear of him, but because I was scared of the feeling he gave me."

Jill's eyes widen, and they only grow wider as I give her every detail, not leaving anything out except the sex. As I tell my story, I notice her glancing wistfully at the bottle of whiskey, as if just hearing what happened with me and him makes her need a drink. But for whatever reason, she never reaches for the bottle. When I finally wrap things up quickly and end the story by spreading my hands and saying, "And now I'm here," Jill nods her head slowly and glances at the bottle again. I reach out and nudge it toward her, but she shakes her head.

"I've had enough, my dear." When I arch my brow, she explains, "I can tell you now, you both are mentally fucked-up individuals, but no matter how fucked up and insane you both are, you seem to complement each other in a way one could almost describe as Joker and Harley Quinn. Or maybe a mentally insane Bonnie and Clyde."