Turpentine & Vetiver

5. Obsession -follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly-Kafka

The first time Thorn saw Inky Delaney, she was sitting at a long table in the Gallery, a mess of paperwork and sloppy notes in cursive strewn around the tabletop surrounding her. She was awkwardly perched in the metal chair, cross-legged, leaning over the table. Her hands were stained with black ink, and she wore a too-large white men's button-down shirt that was covered in paint splotches. She had short, messy black hair the same color as the ink on her pale skin, and a slightly angular face with high, freckled cheekbones, and the most striking grey eyes he'd ever seen. Inky was not wearing makeup, which only added to her somewhat messy charm.
Thorn wanted to introduce himself to this quiet young woman- but didn't want to scare her away with his hidden darkness. Remember what happened to you two years ago? he thought, recalling his previous interactions with the other woman -Isobel- who he'd ended up- killing. Thorn viewed himself as somewhat awkward-looking; pale, tall, with black hair that was a bit too long in the front- which purposely covered his black eyes most of the time. Anyone who'd been subjected to his intense, creepy stares would automatically look away, feeling extremely unsettled.
Ironically, most of the women he'd met at the Gallery and at his art shows had found him attractive, though they were quick to leave once they sensed that there was something indescribably wrong with him. Thorn wore all black, hiding in the back of the room like a shadow, staring unabashedly at Inky. He couldn't force himself to look away from her- she was the most interesting and beautiful person he'd ever seen- even in her slightly-awkward way. Thorn observed her scribbling down notes, crossing things out, re-arranging the colorful sticky notes adorning her collection of paperwork.
Inky absently chewed on the cap of her pen, which set his nerves on edge- his OCD did not appreciate the gesture. "Shit," she muttered softly, as the dark blue ink had leaked out of the end of the pen, staining her face, smudged like weird lipstick across her mouth. She rubbed her face with the back of her hand, making the ink smear worse. Thorn smiled to himself, sensing that something in his mind was changing- obviously, though he didn't feel -emotion- properly, he still felt attraction- especially to this strange woman and her odd, ink-stained appearance. He knew that she was directly responsible for opening the terrible Red Void, though she was not aware. He'd seen her before -kind of- in strange hallucinatory visions that had haunted him even as a child, but this was the first time he had seen her in person.
I wonder what you would look like with your throat slit- bleeding out on my floor, Thorn wondered darkly for a moment; and as quickly as the fleeting thought of killing her had come into his mind, it just as quickly vanished, and instead was replaced with another thought altogether- the two of them together, on the cold tile floor of the strange dark building he inhabited; her ink-stained hands leaving black handprints on his skin, staring up into his cold, dark eyes and whispering his name into the darkness...
This was how his obsession with her began, the start of something new and different in his otherwise meaningless, empty existence. He wanted to touch her, perhaps being with her would erase some of the darkness he hid within himself. Thorn wasn't quite sure how to approach her though, he was socially deficient and morally void- on top of that, he had already killed several people in the past. I do want to kill you, a part of me does- see the fear in your grey eyes as your life drains away, your soul leaving your body as one of my blood sacrifices to the Red Void, the abomination you have created will disappear- but I also want to see the way you look at me, if you'd allow me to touch you, what you would let me do to you... He knew that these thoughts were twisted, perverse, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking about her, his dark fantasies that would most likely remain- just that. I should hate you for making me feel this, he thought, leaving the Gallery in silent frustration.
Several days had passed, and Thorn watched Inky in her apartment from the small window of his office in the Gallery. He'd noticed her smoking outside her small studio, looking sleep-deprived and paranoid, but still beautiful. She was always so quiet when he'd seen her at work, and she didn't even notice him- watching her. Not very observant, are you... Discreetly, he took the old pair of binoculars out of his black file cabinet. Her apartment window just happened to be facing the Gallery, and his own office window, it had seemed like a strange coincidence. Staring at her intently through the binoculars, Thorn absently wondered how to approach her, or if she'd even talk to him. Most people he met thought he was creepy, off-putting, unsettling. If only they actually knew- they'd see the truth and then REALLY want to run, he mused.
A moth idly hit the window glass, distracting him for a moment. He opened the office window a crack, letting it escape out into the night. See, I'm not a complete monster- I do hold some value in life...it's mainly just the humans I hate, feel apathy towards. I know I'm broken... Thorn looked up through the binoculars again, black eyes widening in shock as he watched Inky making her art. She'd covered herself in black paint- or ink, and was standing in the middle of her apartment, wearing only the layer of dark paint and black lace underwear. She had on sound-canceling headphones, her messy black hair a tangle of curls around her pale, ink-smeared face. Thorn watched as she left a black handprint on one of the large canvases in her studio, a dark mixed-media piece.
He secretly wanted to be there with her, wondering if she'd leave ink stains on his skin... He took his camera out of the desk, focusing the lens on Inky. Thorn took several pictures of her, hoping that she wouldn't notice the flash of the camera in the dark. He felt like a bit of a pervert watching her, but couldn't stop himself. He wasn't used to this feeling of intense attraction, most people he'd met just filled him with rage and disgust. I didn't think this was even possible- most of the time, I feel nothing... There's already blood on my hands, at first, it wasn't intentional- and now, for some reason I am drawn to you. Perhaps I could kill you, too- if things didn't work out. Shaking his head to try and clear these dark thoughts, Thorn knew that this was just another lie he told himself- after watching her silently creating her art, he did partially hate her for causing him -a psychopath- to feel anything.
I shouldn't even be capable of feeling this way- yet every time I've seen you at work, paint and ink stains on your skin- all I can think about is the two of us together... He was growing tired of these constant obsessive thoughts. Nothing would ever be reality for him, even if he did somehow convince her to even be in the same room with him, alone. I don't want to think about you anymore, he lied to himself. A loud noise from outside made his brain temporarily divert, and Thorn looked up, staring out the window yet again.
The rain had started falling, and Inky had opened her window, looking out, seeming distressed. You look so scared- I wonder if you would be scared of me. I don't know if I want to know that particular truth. He noticed that her hands were still covered with black paint and ink, which led to more vivid, indecent thoughts about her... I won't let the abomination hurt you- I can't even bring myself to. He closed his eyes, once again imagining her ink-stained hands on his skin, her grey eyes staring back at him without fear or disgust. What is it about you- we are the parallels of creation and destruction, yet it feels as if I am only destroying myself. His thoughts again turned to being in the small studio room alone with her, both of them covered in black paint and nothing else. Stop it STOP IT she will NEVER want you like that. Remember- you are broken, damaged, sick. Meant to be alone, especially for the atrocities you've committed. Besides, even if anything did happen- remember the last time? She would reject you, too...
However, this didn't stop Thorn from staring at her through the darkness and steadily falling rain. Inky was leaning out the window, smoking a cigarette, not caring that the rain was smearing black ink trails down her face and arms. She looked so sad, confused, and all he wanted now was to be there with her. This confused him as well- more feelings? His mind slowly filled with conflict. What is this? Perhaps I should at least try to talk to her, introduce myself. I promise if she rejects me, I'll leave. I can always move away and try to forget about her, Thorn tried once again to convince himself. A small spark of an idea remained, a sick, darkly hopeful part of his mind that wanted her to be just as damaged as he was. Misery loves company...what if you did want me to touch you, to do those things I see in my mind- would that make you as sick as me?
   He stared out the window at her in frustration, knowing that this was most likely not a possibility. After all, he was -what- a stalker, a pervert, a murderer- worse? Nobody in their right mind would ever want someone like that. Like him. This would have to remain a perverse obsession, relentlessly consuming his waking mind. However, something told him that if he didn't do anything about this, the frustration would cause his mind to completely collapse. I am capable of so many terrible things...
   Thorn put the binoculars back in his file cabinet, replaced the camera in his desk drawer. At least he had only taken pictures, locked away safely from view. Inky. At first I wanted to kill you- now I see that I cannot. Though it would be easier for me, to erase your existence so you don't drive me to madness...now, I want something else, but you would never allow me to touch you, and I would never- force anything. I'm sick, but not like that. I want you to think about me the way I think about you...constantly. He turned the light in his office off, again hoping that she hadn't noticed. Inky thankfully didn't seem like the most observant person, mostly appearing either busy or living in her own head. Outward perceptions could be deceiving though- there had to be some darkness inside her mind- after all, she was the creator of the terrible totem of the abomination, had unwittingly opened the doorway to the evils of the Red Void.
I've had to hurt myself, more than once- because of you, Inky, Thorn thought, rolling up his shirt-sleeve to inspect the parallel lines of scars; his blood sacrifices to the demons in the void, self-inflicted mutilation. You would probably think that I'm disgusting, too- he thought, recalling with displeasure the only other incident in his life that he'd stupidly allowed someone else to see, to get close. She was disgusted by me- not at first, because I remained hidden. Thorn remembered vague images of the woman he'd met in art school, at the florist's, his first intentional victim besides his abusive relatives. They'd gone out a few times, until the day she looked at him with disgust, the hateful words she'd spoken to him- and he felt nothing at all when he'd ended her life, offering the spilled blood to the atrocities within the Red Void.
   That night, Thorn fell asleep in his office, too tired to drive back to the dark building he called home. He woke up feeling strange- some of the photos he'd taken of Inky still lying out on the surface of his desk- he quickly hid them, hiding the evidence of his voyeurism the previous night. Later that evening, Thorn sat at the bar in Tapestry- the obnoxious, predictable conversations surrounding him, assaulting his intelligence. He tried to tune it out; the bartender tonight was playing music he somewhat enjoyed, the heavy industrial beat weaving through the room.
   He sat in the far left corner, drinking a double gin and tonic, overhearing Miranda- the host of Artist's Night- talking loudly and excitedly about the upcoming show- a performance art piece that they'd been working on. Thorn had worked with her in the past- his art shows had gotten progressively darker, and he'd been collaborating with Miranda on performative pieces- that always somehow involved blood. Now she was talking about how she was scared to bleed more than usual- though both she and Thorn had medical training, and he'd cut her before- as part of the act.
Thorn sat back in his chair, quietly eavesdropping on her conversation. "Yeah -his artwork is- pretty dark, but I don't think that anyone else would- volunteer for this. It's a bit intense, but I've learned that in art, you have to accept the weird, dark parts of humanity- however, Thorn is...pretty fucked up," Miranda explained to the petite blonde girl sitting next to her at the bar. Where is your friend- I want to see Inky, thought Thorn, disappointed that she wasn't here- even if it was in the company of these two. Since he'd first seen her that day at the Gallery, he couldn't help himself from thinking indecent thoughts about her- maybe he should ask her to take Miranda's place in the performance art piece...
Yeah, right- like she'd be willing to do THAT- and besides, Thorn knew that he'd been watching her too much lately, spying on her last night, and was surprised that he hadn't been caught stalking her yet. He felt too socially inept to speak to her, and was afraid of her rejection, so he still stared at her from afar like a creep. Where are you tonight? Thorn wondered, finishing his drink. He didn't think he could take it if Inky hated him- even thinking about it- hurt. It's easier to hide, consumed by my own obsession.
He'd had enough of hearing Miranda's derogatory comments about him- she'd known him for two years and he knew that she was secretly terrified of him- yet still chose to work with him for appearances- Cayson had promoted Thorn's art, featuring the dark paintings in several art magazines and exhibitions. You only want recognition- you're using my art shows to get to the top, Miranda. It's not going to work out for you, he thought, paying for his drink, smiling to himself at the thought of killing her for real during the performance art show- what would the audience do if he did indeed actually slice her open onstage- cut just a little too deep on purpose? However- the actual act of killing he did not particularly enjoy- it was merely another task that needed to be done- and when he killed, he felt nothing except more emptiness inside afterwards.
Leaving Tapestry, Thorn ignored Miranda and the blonde girl, who both looked at him with a strange, almost fearful look. Miranda at least respected his art, although she thought that Thorn was 'fucked up' - in her own words. He decided that after this performance art show, he'd tell her to piss off and find someone else to work with- somebody with a normal mind who made boring, accessible artwork. He found himself wandering back to the Gallery, silently walking up the stairs- going to the Artist's Loft on the rooftop to watch the stars. Except... he got distracted from the field of constellations by his thoughts of Inky, and wondered if she was at home, looking down in the direction of her apartment. The light was on, and he thought he could see movement in the studio area.
Stop watching her, you pervert, Thorn told himself as he openly stared into Inky's apartment window. He'd watched her countless times now, unfortunately it was becoming his favorite pastime- an unhealthy obsession. Well, when you have OCD, everything is an unhealthy obsession, he thought. Just. Stop. Being. A. Creep. Thorn couldn't help it, though- and besides, so far she hadn't bothered to notice her destructive parallel watching her, following her- even as blatantly as he did sometimes. Anyway, she probably wanted nothing to do with him, as was generally the case. Try to distract yourself- write something- kill something if you must... His internal dialogue wouldn't shut the fuck up, and it made him alarmingly angry, which was rare considering that he usually felt next to nothing.
Staring back at Inky's window, Thorn watched her in her studio, typing on her laptop computer- probably working on a research paper. He remembered the last time he'd spied on her, making dark artwork and wearing next to nothing- just black paint, ink, and lace. Goddammit- I'm going to have to take a cold shower now, he thought, the anger fading away into something else entirely. He felt frustrated in every possible way, trying to force himself to stop watching, stop staring at her. He took the black Moleskine journal out of his pocket and started to write a new poem.

THE CAMERA LENS FOCUSES
SILENTLY ON YOUR FACE
FROM OUTSIDE
THE WINDOW
ALWAYS WATCHING FROM AFAR
BEHIND GLASS
OR DARK EXPRESSIONS
OBSESSION
WOULD YOU UNDERSTAND?
I DON'T KNOW IF YOU WOULD
ENJOY THE THOUGHT
FOLLOWING YOU
INTO THE ABYSS

YOU MIGHT REALIZE THAT I
HAVE BLOOD ON MY HANDS
A FRAGMENTED PAST
ARE WE REALLY STRANGERS?
OR JUST TWO PIECES
WEARING THE SAME BLANK MASK

This poem wasn't filled with murderous imagery like many of his others, nor did it have a tone of rage, or even apathy. He'd written it about watching Inky, because part of him was desperate for her to see him, understand him. I don't want to feel, he thought.