Obsessive Love Disorder

8

September 29, 1996
Billy

A scream bounces off the walls of my room. Lights flash. A knife is held over her head menacingly, her eyes watering at the sight. Then... the blood. It goes everywhere — the walls, the ceiling, the sheets on the bed. It's oddly beautiful, I must admit. It's like art, y'know? A gorgeous mess of terror and gore. It releases something in me that I don't quite understand. 

Another scream, mixed with pleas of mercy. It's music to my ears. It all plays out so nicely. The fear and the sexual nature of stabbing someone over and over again only adds to the masterpiece. My vision goes black as I process my senses. 

This... this is incredible. 

Knock, knock.

Fuck.

I reach over to my bedside table and grab the remote to the TV, quickly pressing "pause" and angling my head toward my bedroom door. 

"What do you want?"

My father pokes his head inside and stares directly at the screen. Some slut is in the middle of getting her intestines ripped out by a masked killer wielding a kitchen knife. 

"I can't believe you enjoy that shit," he sighs, shaking his head and blinking in an attempt to erase the image from his memory. 

"Well, no one is perfect," I reply. It's obvious that I'm insulting him, but he seems unfazed. Instead, he steps further inside and crosses his arms.

"Ms. Ross is coming over for dinner tonight."

"Who?"

"Angelica Ross, my client. She's suing her ex-husband for defamation of character, and she wanted to discuss some details over dinner."

I roll my eyes and accidentally let out a bitter laugh. This is fucking rich. 

"So you invited her to our house?"

"Of course. I've told you, I like to make the lawyer-client relationship personable." He fixes me with a hard stare, almost like he knows what I'm thinking. And he probably does. 

He's totally going to try and fuck that poor woman tonight. 

"Let me guess," I say sarcastically, tapping my chin. My dad looks like he's losing his patience. "You want me out of the house so she doesn't know you have a fuck-up for a son?"

He meets my eye and smirks slightly. "Exactly."

Ouch. Even though I was the one who said it, it still stings. I readjust on the bed so that I'm facing him completely. I suppose I could fight back, but do I really have the energy for that?

I sure do!

"Alright, well," I say, standing up and walking toward him. I place a hand on his shoulder and stare at him with the kindest eyes I can muster. "Stay safe, use condoms. You don't want to give some random woman an STI."

Before I know it, I'm laying down on my bed and staring at the ceiling fan. It feels like all of the air in my lungs has just escaped at the speed of light and I'm left gasping for more. My dad stands over me, his face bright red and his eyes full of pure disdain. 

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, boy," he seethes, adjusting his sleeves. I cough a bit, trying to recover from the harsh shove. He then turns around and walks out, just like that. A minute or so later, I hear the front door open and slam, and I take that as a signal that I'm relatively safe. 

I pull up my shirt and stare in the mirror that hangs on the back of my door and stare at the giant red spot that now takes over my chest, spreading quickly outwards. I give it a small rub, as if that's supposed to help, and throw my shirt down.