Page 83 of Wicked Vile King
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Repression.
Repeat.
Just like the good doctor taught us.
In therapy, Cross likes to call the target of obsession a limerence object, but I never liked that phrase. Because what he doesn't realize is that what we feel is real, what I feel for Willow isreal.
It isn't short or fleeting. It's obsessive.
And she's not an object. She's mine, a two-legged, hot-blooded pet.
Kill and Gabe should count themselves lucky I'm not in compulsion mode at the moment. I think I was for a little while at least, with the constant urge to touch the scars on her wrists and feel their ugly, crinkled edges, but that urge has been satiated, for now.
"You're both being dicks," I say to them, which earns me atrue, brofrom Gabe and a raised eyebrow from Kill, probably because he knows I don't care. I just don't want them spoiling my daydreams of my pet again.
"Why don't you worry about your own obsessions and fuck off?" I add, but there's no bite to my words.
Gabe tips his chin at Kill. "Where's your playmate then, bro? Haven't seen her in weeks now."
"She transferred overseas," Kill grumbles, looking positively murderous. "I already told both of you that."
"Oh, yeah." I point at him. "The devout Catholic, right?"
Kill nods, and it's like all of him twitches at once. The dude's dealing with some heavy cult-induced trauma, and if screwing the God out of some girl makes him feel better about it, more power to him.
"Oh shit!" Gabe exclaims. "I almost forgot about that! You always go for the nuns-to-be and shit."
"Why?" I ask Kill, though I already know the answer, or at least the one he'll give me. It never changes.
"What was the name of the last one?" Gabe asks.
Kill addresses me first. "It's a challenge," he answers.
It'sdefinitelymore than that.
"Too bad after meeting you, they quickly lose their faith," Gabe interrupts and starts to guffaw.
"I remember now!" he adds. Cue more guffawing from Gabe. "Ingrid. Her name was Ingrid like my damn grandma. And Kill screwed the Jesus right out of her, didn't you?"
We all know he did. Still, I laugh as Kill threatens to cut off Gabe's dick.
I hand the cigarette back to Gabe, and he accepts it between his thumb and forefinger before I look over at the etching of her face, carved into the stone wall beside my bed, and think of her.
23
WILLOW
Today is anoutingday. I don't know what that means, not exactly, but Trixie keeps calling it that. She says all outing days are good days, and after spending the past three ofmydaysbored out of my mind on lockdown, I will take all the good ones I can get.
We're allowed off Academy grounds on outing days, though the visits are strictly supervised and we've all been fitted with tight metal wristbands that can't be taken off or broken—or at least that's what the guards said—that will track our every move and alarm if we get outside a certain radius of where we are supposed to be. At least, we get to wear our own clothes. I can't remember when I've ever appreciated a pair of jeans and Chucks as much as I do now. Not that our Academy uniforms are terribly uncomfortable—they're not—but you try wearing white tights and pleated skirts 24/7 and see how long it takes before you just want your trusty jeans back.
Trixie said the only students who don't get to go out on outing days are those locked up in the isolation ward with Dr. Boucher. I hope Saint isn't locked up. I haven't seen him yet, though, in fairness, I haven't seen any of the male students at all. The girls gathered on a bus early this morning, and I've sat next to Trixie for the entire ride and stared out the window from the moment we loaded up in the bus.
It's surreal, watching Chryseum disappear and the rest of the world come into view. I'm still staring out the window, transfixed, as we descend the mountain and the fog retreats from the forest like it only plagues the school and not the rest of civilization that exists beyond the top of the mountain and outside of the Academy's view.
