Page 70 of Wicked Vile King
Dr. Cross nods to himself and stands abruptly.
"Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., rain or shine, dead or alive, come by my office for your make-up session. Understood?"
"Understood," I confirm before he walks out of the room and leaves me to my thoughts again.
19
SAINT
Ifeel manic, a little unhinged. I wonder what my pet is doing, what she's thinking, where she's at. Okay, I know that one. She's holed up in her room like a disobedient dog who walked into her own cage.
But why? And why now? Did she have some breakdown that I missed, a crisis of faith I completely fucking ignored? I will admit it. It's been known to happen. I can get in my own head. I am self-centered and narcissistic. I care about myself and no one else, or at least that's what the doctors tell me. Apparently, I'm not normal, but then again, the assholes in white lab coats are the same ones who say that too.
Up and down, I pace the floor in my room. If I keep this up much longer, I'm going to wear circles into the stone like I'm building my own miniature racetrack.
I pushed her too hard, I think, when I demanded she admit she tried to kill herself, when I confronted her with all the ugly facts she'd like to disassociate from and ignore, the ones that prove shedefinitelywent all-in on the un-alive train, no matter how many times she claims otherwise.
Why can't she just admit it? Ineedher to admit it. Lying to protect herself is pathetic, and she's the opposite of pathetic. More importantly, she's not truly mine until all of her is mine—no barriers, no masks, and no pretty lies to hide behind. I won't accept anything less. But I think I pushed her too far this week.
Then I fucked it all up even more when I tried to undo it, sparing her from her asshole father berating her on the phone. It was pathetic, listening to her try to appease him. She's beneath begging for her father's approval. Doesn't she realize that now?
You know what? No. I take it all back. I don't think I went too fucking hard. I think I didn't go hard enough. She needs to be pushed out of her comfort zone. She needs to realize who she is—what she is—and that she is stronger than her fear of the dark and her need for her daddy's love.
Damn pet is making me lose my mind.
Disobedient damn pet.
My fuckabledisobedient damn pet.
What is she doing?!
This isn't allowed.
She accepted. She said the words. She is mine!
Yet, I'm the one who's being punished for it now. For two whole damn nights, Saturday and Sunday, I didn't sleep. I was consumed by her. I tugged at my hair and drew her on every bit of paper I could find. When I had raided everything I had and then taken from Kill's desk drawers, I resorted to drawing her in the margins of the pages and the lines between the words of my books. I put everything on paper, trying to get it out of me.
I drew her eyes, amber and honey, defiant yet afraid.
And the V of her cunt peeking out from between the plastic sides of the body bag.
Her breasts hidden beneath her plain Academy-issued bra.
The perfect leather collar, canvas fabric and riveted brown leather, against the delicate line of her throat.
I removed the lead carefully from my pencil with the scalpel and used it for shading. I imagined cutting her open, seeing her beautiful heart, and painting with her blood. It didn't matter that everything I drew was in muted silver and gray because then, just as now, I see it in color as though it exists right in front of me. I only finished when I ran out of lead and paper and resorted to carving her beautiful face into the wall with the stolen scalpel.
My wrist aches from the pressure and blisters have started on my fingers.
She is the one who disobeyed, yet I'm the one paying the price.
Fuck!
The bell tolls, loud and echoing in the hall, as Kill grumbles in his sleep. His eyes are slow to open before he looks over at me as the guards start roll call down the hall. He blinks at me, his brow furrowed, golden hair falling into his eyes when he yawns, his face still confused from sleep.
I wish I could've slept.
"You look like shit," he remarks before I walk to my desk, gather the drawings in my hands, and shove them into the top drawer.
