Lovely obsession

Chapter 1

                                        Roman
                            "If it's fate, then fuck it."

Can a person influence their own fate? Many would say no. Fate is predetermined, known in advance, and life merely adjusts to its plans. Everything happens according to the map of your destiny.

But what if even a single step aside can drastically change the course of events? Will fate change? Or are all our decisions and actions, right or wrong, also predetermined, and everyone is merely following the steps of a scripted algorithm? We think we're defeating fate, when in reality, it is manipulating us. Like a puppeteer. If this is true, does that mean everything I knew about myself and my life is a lie?

I've always believed I could change my destiny by making certain decisions. But what if my life's path ultimately leads me to the bottom, no matter how hard I try to avoid it?

I grew up in a world of cruelty and violence, where death was perceived as something ordinary. No one would be surprised by news of another victim, murder, or kidnapping because, for the mob, it was business as usual. Just like it was for me.

People who grew up under different conditions find it hard to understand what the mafia is. In books or films, they see only the tip of the iceberg, having no idea what's hidden below the surface.

The worst part is that, no matter how hard you try to stay away, this world, once it gets its claws into you, won't let go and will ruthlessly drag you down with it. Because you belonged to this world from birth. And now, more than ever, I felt its grip, its claws digging in. All because of decisions that led to me standing in the hospital bathroom with bloodied hands.

Her blood. Only her blood couldn't be ordinary for me. What for others might have been just another victim of a psychopath was, for me, the end of my own life. There's so much filth around us that it seems I've stopped distinguishing whether there was any truth in my relationship with Melissa.

The children. Melissa and I had children. Those little monsters from the kindergarten were my daughters. I knew she was pregnant. I wasn't blind. I could pretend to be drunk and stay out of our bedroom for days, but I knew about every step she took. Yes, she didn't want me around, yes, I disgusted her, and most likely, I'm still the main character in her nightmares. But I couldn't just stay on the sidelines.

When she came home and mentioned something about surgery, about removing some cyst, I realized the children didn't survive. And that probably affected me more than her conversation with her mother. But now? When shortly after I left Mel at the kindergarten and received a letter from that damn doctor, the only option was to go after her and the girls in that damn Italian mafia mansion. But it was already too late.

I opened my eyes and turned on the faucet. Plunging my hands under the cool stream, I tried to wash off the blood. It had dried under my nails, soaked into my skin. I rubbed my hands with soap, but even that didn't help: the red color wouldn't come off.

I had to give up on that idea, but the stains remained on my pants and shirt. And even these attempts were futile. Out of anger and frustration, I threw the soap into the sink. The stains on my clothes grew even larger. It felt like they were mocking me, reminding me of what happened, as if the images I saw every time I closed my eyes weren't enough.

What had happened exhausted me, and I wanted to sleep, but sleep was out of the question. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to freshen up a bit. It was useless.

My gaze slid to the mirror on the wall, which was tiled in white. The whole room was white, and the brightest spot in it was me. Dirty and disheveled.

Shaky hands reached for my hair as I tried to straighten it, but only smeared more blood on it. I was covered in blood, I could smell it, taste it on my tongue. If my stomach had been full, I would have vomited.