Obsession

Author's Note:

This is a story of toxic love, betrayal, and revenge. If you are looking for a "happily ever after" story, there is one... but it really depends on your definition of "happy."

This story features unhealthy relationships, references to abuse, mental illness, and a number of poems, as well as erotic scenes. It is posted in its entirety.

**

It doesn't interest me

if the story you are telling me

is true.

I want to know if you can

disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear

the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

—The Invitation, Oriah Mountain Dreamer

**

At what point does love stop being beautiful and become something sick?

She was the closest thing to a goddess that existed on Earth. Everything about her was joy and peace and happiness. Wherever she went, she found beauty: to her, city lights were the same as sunrises; a bag drifting in the wind held the same majesty as leaves in the breeze. Everything she touched was made better for it; every person she met felt honoured to have even just briefly been in her presence. She was so sweet, they said, so kind, so beautiful and so genuine, as warm as her golden-brown eyes were in the basking light of sunset.

His eyes were blue. Icy, cold, intense: a blue so dark it was almost a new colour. They were focused eyes, hard eyes that slashed at her softness. They absorbed everything, those eyes, picking out details that tried to scurry away and hide like beetles, only to be revealed by a hand plucking the stone away like it was nothing.

Most of all, they absorbed her. They took in every bit of her, every gentle curve of her perfect body, every shining smile and every gasping breath, every inch of skin covered with the sheen of desire as he fucked her, every feather-light touch of her hand as she clutched him closer, urging him on, begging for more, writhing beneath him until those eyes squeezed shut and he was coming inside her.

At least, that's how I pictured them together.

"Cecily?"

I knocked my wine over, jumping out of my thoughts at the sudden touch of Minah's hand on my arm. The glass shattered and red liquid sprayed across the table.

"The dress!" Natasha shrieked.

There was no need for that kind of noise; the liquid wouldn't dare to dream of sullying Minah's wedding dress. Not a drop splashed within a foot of her, choosing instead to soak the pristine tablecloth and drip onto the skirt of my own lavender bridesmaid dress.

Still, Natasha shrieked, Minah gasped, and the wedding guests moved collectively, heads snapping towards me in hive-mind unison. Natasha pounced between me and Minah, a bodyguard against the blood-like red wine stain threatening the immaculate dress that graced Minah's immaculate body.

Silence hovered through the hall. I wasn't bold enough to risk a glance at Axel, but I could feel those intense eyes watching from the other side of the head table.

"I'm so sorry."

My voice wavered, not from nerves but because it always did. I truly was sorry; no one wants to be the person who nearly destroys the bride's wedding dress.

There was a moment when I thought she might... something. A moment when I didn't give her enough credit. Her eyes flashed, her jaw clenched, I imagined she would scream at me, tell everyone, tell them all what I was and what I had done.

I was wrong. Ever graceful, Minah laughed musically.

"It's nothing," she said in that melodic lilt. "Even if it was something, it's only a dress."

Chattering murmurs returned to the hall as people looked away. Natasha drifted away at the slightest touch of Minah's hand, and then she was resting her comforting palm against my shoulder.

"I only meant to ask if you were okay," she continued. "You had that lost look, like when you're writing."

I doubted I had that look, but Minah was giving me an out. "Just daydreaming. I thought I might... you know. Inspiration."

Minah's face lit up. "A poem?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, Cecily! That would be... oh, I hope you do. Please, if you write about me and Axel, you'll share it with us, right?"

I nodded, though it was about as likely as me sharing the details of the daydream she'd interrupted. Surely, she'd love to hear my detailed description of how I imagined her new husband fucking the daylights out of her.

Even still, that strange, creeping feeling came over me again, and I knew Axel had glanced back over. I risked a look in his general direction as a waiter scurried over to mop up the wine. Sure enough, Axel's gaze was focused directly on me. His lips twitched into the tiniest of half-smiles as I met his eyes.

he knows

I forced a smile past my trembling lips and tore my eyes away, patting the damp napkin the waiter had brought against the red wine stain on my skirt.

He doesn't know, I told myself. It's impossible.

he can hear you think

"Impossible," I said out loud.

"Miss?" the waiter asked.

I coughed, trying to make it sound like a laugh.

"Sorry. I need more... excuse me."

I felt Axel's eyes on me as I walked to the bathroom, but when I looked back, he was dipping Minah for a kiss, a grin on his face as he focused on her. Only her.

**

I didn't want him when I met him.

We shared two classes together: Screenwriting, and Studies in Literature and Film. I was a year ahead of him and we had different majors, so the crossing of our paths was unlikely to begin with, but I missed the universe's memo that it was a sign.

It wasn't that I didn't notice him. I did; everyone did. Half the women in our classes swooned because he was brooding and quiet, the mysterious enigma, the handsome, haunted art student whose secrets were buried beneath the chiselled lines of his statuesque face. The other half swooned because he was an athlete. His body was as toned as his face was perfect.

He seemingly had no interest in any of them. Some tried to seduce him with low-cut shirts and flirty hair-tosses. Others tried appealing to his mind, waxing poetically about art house films and the brilliance of pioneers like Dreyer. They were the embodiment of the woman who would come and go, talking of Michelangelo, like a patient etherized upon a table, like yellow smoke sliding along the street.

All of them wanted to know his secrets. All of them wanted to be the woman who would earn the fixation of those startling eyes, who would carve out a path to his heart and make him bare the secrets of his soul to them.

Except me.

I found him dull. Oh, yet another artsy, sensitive romantic who wore black sweaters and carried a canvas messenger bag and had a stupid pretentious name. Axel Pierce, like his parents had known he would be a brooding old soul. Yet another college boy with longish hair and pouty lips and a permanent scowl on his face as he pondered the injustice of life and the illusion of liberty and the lack of inspiration to be found in the world. Another tortured creature that stood amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, contemplating if all we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

He bored me.

Intimidating and unapproachable, he sat alone in class, either ignorant or unaware of the mooning girls batting their eyelashes in his general direction. I thought I was above him, more than him, too good to be a cliché like the rest of them. So what if I was a poetry student? So what if I dressed the part, flowing black wraps over black shirts and black jeans and black hair? I didn't need to be the entirety of a cliché and obsess over the volatile being who mused alone in the corner.

As it turned out, Axel was just quiet and not very good at making friends.

I discovered this when I was paired with him as my peer reviewer in Screenwriting. I believed it to be a misfortune at first; rolling my eyes, I slumped across the classroom and settled in the chair next to him, staring moodily at the professor as he waited for everyone to pair up.

"I'm Cecily."

"Axel," came the resonant response.

I tapped my fingers against the desk twice. "I'm pretty critical when it comes to reviewing, so don't expect me to take it easy on you."

"You shouldn't. It would defeat the entire purpose."

I turned my head and found myself trapped in the prism of his gaze, caught like a spider under a glass, mesmerized by the strange colour of his eyes and the depth of his stare.

Then the professor spoke, I turned away, and forgot about that moment.

I found him to be almost surprisingly articulate, thoughtfully perceptive, and infuriatingly silent. When we exchanged assignments for review the first time, I was blown away by a story of cold revenge. His main character was horribly wronged, treated maliciously by everyone who was supposed to love her, and yet she did nothing. I found myself angry with her, frustrated by her lack of response, until she methodically destroyed the people around her.

Every word was gold. The bastard wrote better than I could ever dream of writing.

"You'll be an amazing screenwriter," I told him when I gave it back.

"I want to be a video editor," came the muted response.

It was almost sad that he didn't want to utilize that kind of talent.

Slowly, Axel and I became acquaintances. Not friends, really, not anything more than the kind of people who nodded in acknowledgement when we passed each other on the quad. As the semester passed, though, we became the kind of acquaintances that met to study or to brainstorm in the library, then the kind of acquaintances that went to the campus bar to have a drink after a midterm.

"You should meet my roommate," I told him.

"Why?"

"I think you'd like her."

He didn't shrug, didn't nod, didn't say yes, no or maybe. His eyebrow twitched, which was as much a response as I could hope for.

I didn't think he'd actually like my roommate, but she had just gone through a breakup and I was desperately trying to find a rebound fuck for her so she would stop moping about the apartment all the time. It was less for my benefit than hers; I hated to see her sad.

When Minah walked into the campus bar, his eyes went to her immediately. He watched as she quietly made her way through the crowd, people swishing away like reeds to let her through, an aura of calmness spilling behind her as she made her way to us.

"This is my roommate, Minah. Minah, this is my... classmate. Axel."

Neither of them heard me.

I had never seen Axel smile, not really. That day, I watched his face unfurl, opening the way a flower blooms for the first time, feeling the first resplendent rays of sunshine on petals of silk and finally seeing, finally understanding its purpose.

Two people fell in love that day, and I was one of them.

**

I denied wanting him.

He spent hours that felt like days and days that felt like lifetimes at our apartment. Hours upon days upon months. Their love didn't develop over time, the seed wasn't planted and nurtured until it took root and sprouted and flourished. No, their love was dandelions: one moment there were none, and the next it was an infestation.

And lucky me, I was the one who had breathed on the puff.

Day after day, Axel was there in the morning when I woke and after every class when I returned. He was a better roommate than Minah, even though he didn't actually live with us and I would never have said anything negative about Minah. The constant presence of her yoga mat spread across the living room where the coffee table was supposed to go and the thick hair that clogged our shower drain were small prices to pay for her friendship.

At first, I was logical about it. He was good-looking, I told myself. It was a physical attraction, nothing more. A school-girl's crush, a daydream. One could admit Michelangelo's statue of David was attractive and know that it didn't mean they were in love.

After the first few weeks of their relationship, Minah sat down with me on an evening that Axel wasn't over. It was before he started spending the night, back when it was still just Minah and me, back when I had a break from seeing his face every time I turned around.

"You don't mind if I date Axel, right?"

I looked up at her sharply.

"Why would I mind?"

She was biting her lip, dark eyes wide and vulnerable, and remained silent.

she knows

I shook the intrusive thought away. They popped up every now and then, those thoughts. Thoughts I didn't think, thoughts that weren't my voice, little whispers that said things that might have been true and might have been lies. I never spoke of them, never told anyone. It was hardly the first time I'd had a thought like that, though it was by far one of the most insistent, and I didn't need people thinking I was crazy.

Even if it was a little bit true.

"He's all yours."

but i want him

"I don't want him, don't worry."

Minah looked at me sadly, silently.

she can hear you

I laughed at that one, causing Minah to look at me strangely. She couldn't hear me, I told myself. That was excessively paranoid, even for me.

The silence stretched, even more awkward.

but what if she can hear you

"You and Axel make a great couple," I said. "You're perfect for each other."

Her face brightened, waves of glowing delight flowing from her and filling the small kitchen we shared.

"I really like him," she said. "I mean, I really, really like him."

I swallowed a lump of resentment and another one of guilt. Minah was perfection; she didn't deserve my rancorous thoughts. I had my chance with Axel; I didn't want it. I didn't want him.

That weekend he spent the night for the first time.

They tried to be quiet. It made it all the worse, knowing how hard they tried to muffle their noises on my behalf. The walls sponged up the sound of Minah's high-pitched cries, the low resonance of Axel's breathless groans, the rhythmic thump of her bedframe against our shared wall, and wrung each noise out into my ear as I lay on my bed.

I tried to tell myself the prickling sensation that started in my heart and seeped through my bones was embarrassment, or maybe annoyance that they couldn't have just asked me to leave for the night so I didn't have to hear it.

When I left my bedroom the next morning and found Axel sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee, I tried to twitch my mouth into a smile. He looked up at me, eyes patiently focused, and asked how I'd slept.

"Good," I said.

"Were we, uh..."

"Nope."

He nodded once, brusque, stoic. "Good."

Minah bounded into the kitchen from the hallway.

"Good morning!" she chirped, her voice bright and soft and warm. "Cecily, do you want some pancakes? I thought maybe I'd make pancakes this morning."

I did love pancakes, and I was adamant that I felt nothing for Axel, so I said yes and ate breakfast with them.

Days went by where I insisted to myself that I didn't want him. They fucked all the time. All the fucking time. I'd put headphones on. I'd try to write. I'd study. I'd read. I'd turn the sound on my laptop up and try to drown them out, but it was constant, the beating of a hideous heart. Each day it grew louder, each day I insisted it was nothing, each day I felt I would fade, fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget until the night I found myself listening to what I still insisted was nothing.

I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the floor, a beautiful and sick song of stifled moans and slapping bodies echoing in my mind, slow at first and then growing, crescendoing, climaxing in an explosion in another universe only a few feet away from where I sat.

The next night, I listened again.

And again.

They grew less concerned with their level of noise and the song changed. It became more poignant, more passionate, infuriating and arousing and intoxicating. As the song changed, I changed. My laptop lay abandoned, my headphones not even in the same room. I sat at the edge of the bed, then cross-legged in the middle of the bed, then lying on my back.

I told myself again and again that it was nothing. He was nothing. I felt nothing.

I finally admitted to myself that it wasn't "nothing" on the night I slid my hand into my panties, touching myself as I pictured Axel fucking Minah, pictured his smooth, pale skin pressed against her toned body as he impaled her on his cock. I pictured them together; just them, never imagining myself writhing beneath him. The image of that was too much, too painful, too impossible. I came with them, biting my lip so hard it nearly bled, twisting on the bed as I muffled my own pleasure far more successfully than either of them had.

Not that it mattered. They were absorbed with each other, and I was alone.

It was just a crush, I told myself that night.

And the next night.

And the one after that.

I didn't admit to myself that I was in love with him until the night I was still trying to catch my breath when I heard him say it, his voice as quiet as a pebble dropping in a lake as it splashed through the walls.

"I love you, Minah."

My hand was still in my panties, my heart squeezed and clenched and cracked, and I could see them. I could see him over her; I could see his lips move as he spoke; I could see eyes of dark blue trained on her face and her face alone.

I didn't want him until she had him.

I didn't want him until he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

I loved him, and he loved her, and I cried.

**

Love left forgotten and unfelt will rot. It will mold and fester, turning rancid and toxic until there's no hint left that it used to be something beautiful. Once it's toxic, it starts to spread. It creeps along, black fingers sulking forward and sidling up into the darkest recesses of the mind. Then it feeds there, grows there, and if it's not caught in time, it takes over.

It becomes an obsession.

I knew it was happening, and that was probably the only reason I was able to keep it from completely ruining me. I felt it, as sickly warm as a humid breath on a cold neck and as encompassing as the air around me.

I thought about him all the time: In the morning, during class, in the evening, while he was fucking Minah, while he wasn't fucking Minah, while I showered and shopped and fucked men who weren't him in the hopes that they'd make me forget.

They never did.

I was still lying to myself and insisting it was just a phase when the paranoia truly took root.

It had always been there, really. It was there before Minah had ever asked me if I was okay with her dating Axel. I had never addressed it, never acknowledged it, and that's probably why it lay dormant for so long.

It used to be little things. Thinking a waitress had it in for me if my order was wrong in a restaurant, then thinking the kitchen had spat in my food, even if I'd done nothing to deserve it.

My saving grace was the other part of me. There was Crazy Cecily, Cecily who believed a cook she'd never met had it in for her, but there was also Cecily who knew that Crazy Cecily was crazy. Even in my darkest times, part of me knew it was all in my head.

It didn't stop me from thinking those paranoid thoughts. It didn't stop them from consuming me.

We were out with friends. Other friends. Their faces became blank in my memories, smooth and plastic and unimportant. In recollection, I only remembered Minah and Axel and Natasha. It was likely because I wasn't paying attention. I was daydreaming, always daydreaming, and the daydream that took over my every moment both day and night was Axel.

I remember the daydream. I was picturing his body, specifically. Axel was wearing a dark grey knit sweater that day, very art-student, very unlike his actual personality. He wore sweaters a lot, usually ones with higher collars because he was always cold. It was the one complaint I remember Minah making, and it was never really a complaint at all. Just that his hands were cold, and she would take them between hers and try to warm him up.