“Eat your dinner, now. You have a busy evening ahead of you,” Daddy says.
My chest expands. This isn’t a test at all.
He’s taking care of me.
I dip the spoon into the broth, then bring it close to my lips and blow on the steaming liquid. My skin warms under Daddy’s gaze, heated by his constant observation. The soup coats my tongue; it tastes like a cup of warm ocean water. Maybe it’s not bad. Maybe my taste buds have changed. Maybe the chalky, bland shakes at the asylum have completely ruined my palette.
I swallow the soup. The liquid heats my insides.
“Good,” he says.
Encouraged, I take another spoonful, this time with meat. It’s softer than I expected; the texture is similar to meat from canned soup.
Maybe that’s all this is: a can of soup. It’s not a test, nor is it a sign he wants to take care of me.
But I want to be good. I need to do what he says. I need to eat it.
I chew, then swallow. I’m not sure how my body will react to my first real food in months, but Daddy knows what’s best for me; I don’t need to worry about myself anymore.
Yes, you do, my brain screams. You need to get him?—
I keep eating, drinking, and chewing while Daddy watches me. After the last spoonful, he takes me to another hallway lined with a red, stained runner rug with an opulent design. Underneath it, mold darkens the edges of the black carpet.
He leads me deeper into his house.
A stench seeps into my nose, its strength growing with each step: stale urine and mop water. White webbing weaves in the corners of the walls, and worm-like larvae creep across the white strands. Tiny black capsules, shaped like tear drops, hang from the ceilings. Cocoons. They don’t have to worry about predators here.
A moth flutters past. Daddy smirks.
“Tell me, freak,” he says. Our footsteps thud on the floor, and he cups my hand, his warmth encapsulating me. “You declined to see your old boyfriend. You resisted visiting your mother’s grave. What’s changed?”
I grind my teeth, my bones quivering. I’m supposed to get him, I think. I’m supposed to finish this.
But what does that mean?
Someone—maybe my old boyfriend—once warned me I shouldn’t let this obsession control my life. Even back then, I knew that was right. An obsession like this could ruin me.
And it already has.
“I’m done,” I whisper. Power tumbles in my chest. I rasp: “I’m—I’m?—”
Daddy squeezes my hand, reassuring me. “Take it slowly, then answer me.”
I square my shoulders and face him. My eyes burn. I keep my chin high, but I don’t let the tears fall. I have to say it.
“I’m done with her,” I say. “I don’t need her or my old boyfriend. I never did.”
“Then what do you need then, sweet one?”
You. You. You. It’s an instinct. My purpose.
I’m going to get you.
I’m going to end this.
But I want you.
I need you.
