Edge of Obsession

Disasters start on black nights.

Starless, soulless, sparkless nights.

The type of nights that serve as ominous backgrounds in

folklore tales.

I peer down on the crashing waves that war with the huge

pointy rocks that form the cliff.

My feet tremble on the edge as bloody images roll in my mind

with the wrecking force of a hurricane. The replay happens in full,

disturbing motion. The rev of the engine, the slide of the car, and

eventually, the haunting scratch of metal against rocks and the

splash in the deadly water.

There’s no car now, no person inside it, no soul to be

dispersed into the unapologetic air.

It’s only the slam of the angry waves and the ferocity of the

solid rocks.

Still, I don’t dare to blink.

I didn’t blink back then either. I just stared and stared, then

shrieked like a haunted mythical creature.

He didn’t hear me, though. The boy whose body and soul are

no longer with us.

The boy who struggled both mentally and emotionally but still

managed to be there for me.

A sudden chill runs down my back, and I cross my flannel

jacket over my white top and denim shorts. But it’s not the

coldness that rattles me to the bone.

It’s the night.

The terror of the merciless waves.

The atmosphere is eerily similar to a few weeks ago when

Devlin drove me to this cliff on Brighton Island. An island that’s

situated an hour by ferry on the south coast of the United

Kingdom.

When we first came here, I never imagined everything would

spiral to a deathly end.

No stars were present then either, and just like tonight, the

moon shone brightly, like the bleeding of pure silver on a blank

canvas. The immortal rocks are unassuming witnesses of crimson

blood, lost life—and an all-encompassing sense of grief.

They all say it’ll get better with time. My parents, my

grandparents, my therapist.

But it’s only been getting worse.

Every night for weeks, I haven’t gotten more than two hours

of hazy, nightmare-riddled sleep. Every time I close my eyes,

Devlin’s kind face comes crashing in, then he smiles as scarlet red

explodes from all of his orifices.

I wake up shaking, crying, and hiding in my pillow so that no

one thinks I’ve gone whacko.

Or that I need more therapy.

I was supposed to spend Easter break with my family back in

London, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.

It was pure impulse when I snuck out of the house as soon as

everyone fell asleep, drove for two hours, took the ferry for

another hour, and ended up here past two a.m.

Sometimes, I want to stop hiding from everyone, myself

included. Oftentimes, however, it gets too hard and it’s impossible

to breathe properly.

I can’t look Mum in the eye and lie. I can’t face Dad and

Grandpa and pretend I’m their little girl anymore.

I think the Glyndon King they raised for nineteen years

perished with Devlin a few weeks ago. And I can’t face the fact

that they’ll learn that soon.

That they’ll look at my face and see an imposter.

A disgrace to the King name.

It’s why I’m here—a last attempt to expel the charge building

in my body.

The air frizzles my honey-colored hair that’s streaked with

natural blonde balayage and stuffs it in my eyes. I flip it back and

rub my palm on the side of my shorts as I stare down.

Down.

Down…

My rubbing heightens in intensity and so does the sound of

the wind and the waves in my ear.

The pebbles crush under my tennis shoes as I take a step

closer to the edge. The first one is the hardest, but then it’s like

I’m floating on air.

My arms open wide and I close my eyes. As if I’m possessed

by an alternate power, I don’t recognize that I remain standing in

place or how my fingers itch to spray paint on something.

Anything.

I hope Mum won’t see the last painting I did.

I hope she won’t remember me as the least talented of her

kids. The disgrace who couldn’t even reach the tip of her genius.

The weirdo whose artistic sense is screwed up in all the wrong

ways.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper the words I think Devlin told me

before he flew to nowhere.

Light slips past the corner of my closed lids and I startle,

thinking that maybe his ghost has risen from the water and is

coming after me.

He’ll tell me the words he snarled in every nightmare. “You’re

a coward, Glyn. Always were and always will be.”

That thought spurs those images from the nightmares. I spin

around so fast, my right foot slips, and I shriek as I tumble back.

Back…

Toward the deadly cliff.

A strong hand wraps around my wrist and tugs with a force

that steals the breath from my lungs.

My hair flies behind me in a symphony of chaos, but my vision

still zeroes in on the person holding me effortlessly with one hand.

He doesn’t pull me from the edge, though, and instead, keeps me

at a dangerous angle that could get me killed in a fraction of a

second.

My legs shake, slipping against the tiny rocks and sharpening

the angle I’m standing at—and the possibility of a fall.

The person’s eyes—a man, judging by his muscular frame—are

covered by a camera that’s slung around his neck. Once again,

blinding light flashes directly on my face. So that’s the reason

behind the startling flash a moment ago. He’s been photographing

me.

It’s only then I realize that moisture has gathered in my eyes,

my hair is a tragic mess of the wind’s making, and the dark circles

beneath my eyes could probably be seen from outer space.

I’m about to tell him to pull me, because my position is literally

on the edge and I’m scared that if I try to do it myself, I’ll just fall.

But then something happens.

He slides the camera from his eyes, and my words get caught

at the back of my throat.

Since it’s night and only the moon offers any type of light, I

shouldn’t be able to see him so clearly. But I can. It’s like I’m

seated at the premiere of a film. A thriller.

Or maybe a horror.

People’s eyes usually brighten with emotions, any type. Even

grief makes them shine with tears, unsaid words, and irrevocable

regrets.

His, however, are as dim as the night and just as dark. And the

weirdest part is that they’re still indistinguishable from their

surroundings. If I wasn’t staring straight at him, I’d think he was

a creature of the wilderness.

A predator.

A monster, maybe.

His face is sharp, angular—the type that demands undivided

attention, as if he were created for the purpose of luring people

into a carefully-crafted trap.

No, not people.

Prey.

There’s a masculine quality to his physique that can’t be

hidden by his black trousers and a short-sleeved T-shirt.

In the middle of this freezing spring night.

His arm muscles bulge from the material with no hint of

goosebumps or discomfort, as if he were born with cold blood.

The hand he’s currently holding my wrist hostage with—and

effectively stopping my fall to death—is taut, but there’s no sign

of exertion whatsoever.

Effortless. That’s the word to be used for him.

His whole demeanor drips with utter ease. It’s too cool…too

blank, so that he appears a bit bored, even.

A bit…absent, despite being right here in the flesh.

His full, symmetrical lips are set in a line as an unlit cigarette

hangs from between them. Instead of looking at me, he stares at

his camera, and for the first time since I noticed him, a spark of

light simmers behind his irises. It’s fast, fleeting, and almost

imperceptible. But I catch it.

The single moment in time where his bored façade shimmers,

darkens, rears from the background before eventually

disappearing.

“Stunning.”

I swallow the unease creeping up my throat, and it has little to

do with the word he said and more to do with how he said it.

His deep voice sounds laced with honey but is actually fogged

with black smoke.

It has to do with how the word vibrated from his vocal cords

before rippling in the space between us with the lethality of

poison.

Also, did he just speak in an American accent?

My doubts are confirmed when his eyes slide to me with

deadly confidence that locks my shaking muscles. For some

reason, it feels as if I shouldn’t breathe the wrong way or else I’ll

meet my downfall sooner rather than later.

The resemblance of light has long since disappeared from his

eyes and I’m face to face with that shadowy version from earlier—

muted, dull, and absolutely lifeless.

“Not you. The photograph.”

That sounded American.

But what would he be doing in such a desolate place that even

the locals don’t tread near?

His hand loosens from around my wrist and when my feet slip

back, several rocks fall and meet their demise. A haunted shriek

echoes in the air.

Mine.

I don’t even think about it as I grab hold of his forearm with

both hands.

“What the… What the hell are you doing?” I pant through my

choked breaths, my heart stammering. A sense of terror rips

through my rib cage, and I haven’t felt anything like it in weeks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He still speaks with utter

ease, as if he’s discussing breakfast options with friends. “I’m

finishing the job you started, so when you fall to your death, I can

commemorate the moment. I have a feeling you’ll be a good

addition to my collection, but if you’re not…” He shrugs. “I’ll just

burn it.”

My mouth hangs open as an influx of thoughts invade my

mind. Did he just say he’ll add a picture of me falling to my death

to his collection? I have too many questions, but the most

important of all is, what type of collection does this lunatic keep?

No, scratch that—the ultimate question is, who the hell is this

guy? He looks about my age, would be considered handsome by

societal standards, and he’s an outsider.

Oh, and he gives off a criminal vibe, but not the petty, ordinary

kind. He’s in a league of his own.

A dangerous criminal vibe.

The mastermind controlling countless thugs, who usually lurks

behind the scenes.

And somehow, I happened to appear in his path.

Having lived my life surrounded by men who eat the world for

breakfast, I can recognize danger.

I can also recognize people I should stay away from.

And this American stranger is the epitome of those two

options.

I need to get out of here.

Now.

Despite the nerves attacking my already fragile mental state, I

force myself to speak in my no-nonsense tone. “I wasn’t planning

to die.”

He raises an eyebrow and the cigarette in his mouth twitches

with a slight movement of his lips. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. So can you…pull me up?”

I could use his forearm to do that myself, but any sudden

movement will probably have the exact opposite effect and he

could release me to meet my maker.

Still grabbing my wrist with a nonchalant hand, he retrieves a

lighter with his free one and lights the cigarette. The tip burns like

rich orange dusk and he takes his time before he throws the

lighter back into his pocket and blows out a cloud of smoke in my

face.

I usually gag on the smell of cigarettes, but that’s the least of

my problems now.

“And what do I get in return for helping you?”

“My thanks?”

“I have no use for that.”

My lips purse and I force myself to remain calm. “Then why

did you grab hold of me in the first place?”

He taps the edge of his camera, then caresses it with the

sensuality of a man touching a woman he can’t stay away from.

For some reason that causes my temperature to rise.

He looks like the type who does that a lot.

Often.

And with the same intensity he exudes.

“To take a picture. So how about you finish what you started

and give me the masterpiece I came here for?”

“Are you seriously saying that your masterpiece is my death?”

“Not your death, no. It’d look too bloody and displeasingly

gory when your skull is smashed against the rocks below. Not to

mention that the current lighting won’t be able to capture a good

picture. It’s your fall that I’m interested in. Your pale skin will have

a wonderful contrast against the water.”

“You’re…sick.”

He lifts a shoulder and blows more toxic fog. Even the way he

slides his fingers against the cigarette and smokes appears

effortless, when it’s shackled with tension. “Is that a no?”

“Of course it’s a no, you psycho. You think I’d die just so you

can take a picture?”

“A masterpiece, not a picture. And you don’t really have a

choice. If I decide you’ll die…” His upper body leans forward and

he loosens his fingers from around my wrist, his voice lowering to

a frightening whisper. “You’ll die.”

I scream when my foot nearly gives way and my nails dig into

his arm with a ferocious need for life bubbling in my veins with

the desperation of a caged animal. A prisoner that’s been in

solitary confinement for bloody years.

I’m pretty sure I scratched him, but if he’s hurt, he shows no

signs of discomfort.

“This isn’t funny,” I pant, my voice choked.

“Do you see me laughing?” His long fingers wrap around the

cigarette and he takes a drag before pulling it away from his

mouth. “You have until my smoke ends to give me something.”

“Something?”

“Whatever you’re willing to do in exchange for my chivalrous

act of saving a damsel in distress.”

I don’t miss the way he stresses the word chivalrous, or the

provocative way he uses words in general. As if they’re weapons

in his arsenal.

The battalion at his command.

He’s enjoying this, isn’t he? This whole situation that started

with my attempts to forget has landed me with a nightmare. My

gaze strays to the half-smoked cigarette and just when I’m

thinking about prolonging time, he inhales what remains in a few

seconds and throws the butt away. “Your time is up. Goodbye.”

He starts to release himself from my hold, but I dig my nails in

farther. “Wait!”

No change occurs in his features even as the air tousles his

hair back. Even as I’m sure he feels me shaking with the

desperation of a leaf struggling to survive.

Nothing seems to have any effect on him.

And it scares the shit out of me.

How can someone be this…this cold?

This detached?

This lifeless?

“Changed your mind?”

“Yeah.” My voice trembles even as I attempt to sound in

control of myself. “Pull me up and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Sure you want to word it that way? Whatever I want might

include a number of things that are frowned upon by the general

public.”

“I don’t care.” The moment I’m on safe ground, I’m out of this

crazy wanker’s orbit.

“It’s your funeral.” His fingers wrap around my wrist in a

merciless grip and he tugs me from the edge with baffling ease.

It’s as if I wasn’t hanging toward death by a thread just now.

As if the water below wasn’t opening its fangs to chew me in

between them. Maybe, just maybe, that’s not a good thing,

considering the devil I’m facing.

My harsh breaths sound animalistic in the silence of the night.

I attempt to regulate them, but it’s of no use.

I was brought up to have a steel will and an imposing

presence. I was raised with a last name that’s larger than life, and

with family and friends who attract attention wherever we go.

And yet, everything I knew seems to vanish at this moment.

It’s like I’m dissociating from who I’m supposed to be and

morphing into a version even I can’t seem to fathom.

And it’s all because of the man standing in front of me. His

features are vacant, his eyes still dull and lifeless, and every bleak

color in the palette.

If I had to put a color on him, it’d most definitely be black—

deadpan, cold, and a boundless hue.

I try to free my wrist from his hand, but he tightens his hold

until I’m sure he’ll break my bones just to peek inside them.

It’s been only a minute since I met him, but I honestly

wouldn’t be surprised if he did break my wrist. After all, he

wanted to take a picture of me falling to my death.

And while that’s odd, it’s downright terrifying, too. Because I

know, I just know that this American stranger would be able to do

it in a blink and not think about the consequences.

“Let me go,” I say in a clipped tone.

His lips tip at the corners. “Ask nicely and I might.”

“What’s the definition of nicely to you?”

“Add a please or drop on your knees. Either will do. Doing

them both at the same time would be highly recommended.”

“How about neither?”

He tilts his head to the side. “That would be both pointless and

foolish. After all, you’re at my mercy.”

In a swift movement, he pushes me to the edge again. I try to

stop the brutality of his movement, but my strength is a mere

straw in the face of his raw power.

In no time, my legs are hanging on the verge of the cliff, but

this time, I grab hold of the strap of his camera, his shirt, and any

surface I can dig my nails in.

Cold.

He’s so cold, it freezes my fingers and leaves me breathless.

“Please!”

An appreciative sound slips from his lips, but he doesn’t drag

me back. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

My nostrils flare, but I manage to say, “Can you stop this?”

“Not when you didn’t finish your second part of the bargain.”

I stare at him, probably looking dumbfounded as hell. “Second

part?”

He places a hand on top of my head, and that’s when I notice

that he’s tall. So tall that it’s intimidating.

At first, he merely caresses a few strands of my hair behind

my ears. The gesture is so intimate that my mouth goes dry.

My heart beats so loudly that I think it’ll rip from my rib cage.

No one has ever touched me with this level of nonnegotiable

confidence. No—not confidence. It’s power.

The overwhelming type.

His fingers that were just stroking my hair dig in my skull and

shove down so hard, my legs give out. Just like that.

No resistance.

Nothing.

I’m falling.

Falling…

Falling…

I think he’s pushed me to my death, after all, but my knees

bump against the solid ground and so does my heart.

When I stare up, I find that gleam again. Earlier, I thought it

was a flash of light, some semblance of white in the black.

I thought wrong.

It’s black-on-black.

A shade of absolute darkness.

Pure sadism shines in his irises as he holds my head hostage,

and the worst part is that if he lets go, I’ll surely tumble

backward.

A frightening smirk lifts his lips. “Being on your knees is highly

recommended indeed. Now, should we begin?”