Twisted Obsession

47 - Haunted by You

Lorenzo Vincelli

The doctor had long since departed, leaving the room quiet, save for the soft rhythm of her breathing. I step into the bedroom, finding her lying on the bed, her face pale but serene in deep sleep. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts a warm glow over her, softening the harsh lines of exhaustion etched into her features.

In the adjoining bathroom, I turn the faucet on, letting the water run until it's warm to the touch. I grab a small towel, soaking it and wringing it out until it's just damp. The fabric is soft, pliant, ready for its task.

Returning to her side, I kneel by the bed, careful not to disturb her. Her boots are caked with dirt and dried blood, a grim reminder of what she's been through. I gently undo the laces, easing them off her feet. Each motion is deliberate, mindful of her injuries.

Her pants come next, the fabric stiff and stained, clinging to her like a second skin. I tug them down carefully, trying not to jar her shoulder. When I reach her top, a jagged tear runs along the sleeve where the doctor worked earlier. Moving her arm even slightly could cause more pain, so I retrieve a pair of scissors from the bedside drawer, cutting through the material with precise, steady hands. The fabric falls away, revealing bruised skin and the faint trace of dried blood across her torso.

I take the warm cloth and start wiping her down, starting with her arms, then her chest, her stomach, and finally her legs. The dirt and blood come away in streaks, leaving clean, pale skin in their place. My movements are unhurried, almost reverent, as if the act of cleaning her wounds could somehow undo the harm she's endured.

Every now and then, she stirs, her face twitching as if caught in a fleeting dream, but she never wakes. I pause each time, watching her expression smooth out before resuming my work. The warmth of the towel contrasts with the chill in the room, and I pull a blanket over her once I'm done, tucking it around her securely.

For a moment, I sit back on my heels, studying her. Vulnerable, yet strong even in repose. She's been through hell, but she's here. Alive. And I'll make damn sure she stays that way.

I stay there, crouched beside the bed, my eyes fixed on her. Her face, now calm and still, tells a story I can't ignore. The faint lines near her mouth and the shadows under her eyes weren't there before. Once upon a time, she was nothing more than an innocent, sweet thing—wide-eyed and full of laughter. She used to flinch at the smallest of things, unsure and hesitant, as if the world itself might crush her.

But that girl is gone now.

I don't know exactly when it happened, when she hardened into the woman lying before me. Maybe it was the first time she saw what I was capable of, the moment the light in her eyes dimmed. Or maybe it was later, when she realized there was no escaping this life, no outrunning me or the blood-soaked world I'd dragged her into. I didn't just take her innocence—I obliterated it, replaced it with fire and steel.

And now... look at her. Stronger than I ever imagined she could be. Stronger than I ever wanted her to be. Her will is unyielding, her resolve sharper than the blade she once tried to drive into my side. She's no longer the girl who used to tremble at shadows; she's a woman who could face down death itself and spit in its face.

Still, guilt coils tightly in my chest, a weight I can't shake. I know what I've done to her. I took everything she held dear, stripped her of the person she could've been, and molded her into someone who could survive in my world. But was that survival worth the cost?

I rake a hand through my hair, the memories clawing at me like specters. Her father's face surfaces, stern and cold, the epitome of control. I remember the way he spoke to her, the way his words cut her down like a whip. I couldn't stand it—not his rules, not his cruelty, not the way he saw her as an extension of himself instead of her own person.