Page 37 of Deadly Obsession

THIRTY-ONE

SERA

Up until I heard the first gunshot, I’d been mentally lost. Trying to determine if this was actually happening.

It was impossible to wrap my head around.

Not only had Callsign: KingArthur been my ex-husband this entire time—seeing my conversations and spicy photos in the Discord server—but now he was here!

How had I left myself so vulnerable? How had I not been more careful?

It was my fault that all my friends were dead. And James…

Oh my God, James must have been dead too.

I needed a drink, for no other reason than I wanted to feel something. To remind the rest of my body that I was still alive. Looking slowly over to where Arthur had placed the wine between Jade’s thighs, I reluctantly reached for it, careful not to touch her.

Then, glancing from Arthur to where Danielle and Brian were positioned by the fireplace, I took a sip of the wine.

It was dry and rich with elements of oak and dark berries and an undertone of vanilla.

In this moment, it was so good that I took another sip, trying to focus on each specific ingredient.

I wasn’t a frequent drinker, but right then, I needed something to calm my nerves and slow my rapidly beating heart .

The room was quiet, apart from the wet sounds of Danielle sucking Brian’s cock at gunpoint and the dry sound of Arthur’s hand repeatedly brushing against the lap of his pants.

He wasn’t hard. Danielle was incredibly hot and worked Brian’s dick better than I’d ever seen it done before.

And yet, Arthur—or should I say Mike —was softer than a limp noodle.

And by the looks of him, the only thing growing was his frustration.

There had to be a way to sneak away. Maybe catch him off guard? What I really wanted to do was smash this glass against his face. That was not an option, though. At least not a smart one, given the present fucked-up circumstances.

First and foremost, I was confident that the man beneath KingArthur’s mask was somehow the boogeyman I’d married, my abuser, the one I’d fought so hard to escape.

Secondly, that same boogeyman had two guns at his disposal.

One of which was aimed at my last two living friends, assuming Lyndsey wasn’t alive.

After seeing Robert’s car, I was pretty certain she wasn’t.

Then I had to take into account that I was in the middle of nowhere, in a strange country, without any signal.

It was dark out, and to top it off, I’d already been shot once today.

I looked around the room slowly, trying to formulate a plan. One that would hopefully end with my ex dead and the three of us alive.

“What the fuck!” Micheal screamed out from where he sat, and by the time I glanced back towards the fireplace, all I could do was watch as one of my best friends in the world was literally blown away.

Self-preservation took over, my fight-or-flight instincts activated, as I dropped the wine glass onto the couch and took off without looking back. I was out of the room before my friend’s body even hit the floor.

I dashed to the base of the stairs that led up to the main room. The expected sound of heavy footsteps didn’t follow me.

He hadn’t noticed my absence yet .

I crept up the stairs, praying to any great being listening that these wooden steps wouldn’t give me away.

I’d made it to the halfway point when I heard a loud scream followed by repeated banging.

The third impact sounded wet, and I knew what was likely happening.

There was nothing I could do to stop it either.

So I continued along the stairs and over to the bedroom, holding my hand tight over my mouth while trying not to think about Danielle or Brian.

I slipped inside the room and locked the door, then rushed to where James’s luggage was stowed in the closet. Pulling out his suitcase first, I rummaged through the contents, praying for a machine gun, a flamethrower, maybe a tank…

I found none of the above.

“What the fuck, James! What kind of American are you? I thought you all had like twenty guns at all times.” I pushed the suitcase to the side, pulled out his duffle bag, and dumped it on the floor, instantly regretting it.

Whips, ball gags, handcuffs, candle sticks, ropes, some metal-spiked wheel thing, and at least five differently sized metal butt plugs. And still no gun.

Throwing the bag to the side, I stood and searched the room again.

Desperate. Praying to find some secret hidey hole where James might have stashed one of the many guns he’d joke about having.

I tossed one of the lamps from the nearest nightstand onto the bed and dragged the piece of furniture over to the tall vintage wardrobe in the corner.

Climbing up so that I was just barely able to see over the top.

“Fucking nothing,” I cursed under my breath.

From the other side of the bedroom door, I could hear the heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. That’s when I noticed something hanging on the back of the door. Beside one of my jackets and one of James’s branded bill caps was my keychain clipped to my coffin-shaped purse.

Normally I was a basic girl. I didn’t often rock name-brand clothes outside of InkAddict, Sullen Art, and Calvin Klein underwear.

When it came to accessories, I enjoyed the typical alt-girl style bracelets, chokers, rings, barbells and so on.

And what was presently dangling from my keychain was a blindingly-pink, bedazzled, palm-sized cylinder.

Something so unlike me. Because I hadn’t bought it for myself.

I rushed over to unhook it from my keychain, turning the cylinder over in my hand. “James,” I said aloud, choking on the threat of tears.

He’d always given me shit for not having my own form of self-defense.

The thought of me going out while not being able to carry a gun frustrated him, and he kept saying it was time I moved to America.

Little did he know that I typically had at least two knives on me ever since I took my son and left.

I’d even joined the occasional boxing class at my local gym.

This woman was far from the defenseless girl Micheal had married.

The moment the footsteps stopped, so did my heart. “Oh, Sera Doll, Sera Doll, let me in,” he called out while softly knocking on the door. “Or I’ll have to huff and puff…”

The rest of his twisted nursery rhyme died off, as I focused on the sound of metal being slowly dragged down the door. He was fucking with me, trying to scare me, put me on edge so he could control me like he used to.

Not fucking happening!

I adjusted the pink canister in one hand and reached for the door with the other. My fingers carefully pinching the lock and slowly turning it as he continued tapping the metal on the frame and violently shaking the handle.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the rhythm of his banging.

I had to time this just right—otherwise I was certain I’d be dead.

A half a second following the bang of metal on wood, I yanked the door open, extended the canister in front of me at his eye level, and pressed down on the trigger button so hard I thought my finger might break under the pressure.

At the same time, I screamed. Not out of fear, but a fucking harpy’s war cry.

As if my scream alone could rip the flesh from his body and leave him a gory sack of blood, bones, and rotting organs.

“Fuck! Bitch!” Micheal cursed as his hands shot up to his face, the grip of the shotgun still clutched in his palm.

The barrel tipped up over his shoulder, and he must have tensed while reaching for his eyes because the shotgun went off right beside his head.

The kick rocked his arm backwards at an unnatural angle as the side of the gun cracked against his skull, and then he and the shotgun both tumbled down the stairs.

I watched, both astonished and delighted that my simple tactic had provided such pleasant results.

Micheal cursed and groaned, his body stopping when he reached the bottom.

He had to be dead .

I watched for any sign of life, which didn’t take long.

He groaned, trying to collect his limbs.

And like a domino effect, his movement spurred me back into action.

I ran over to the lamp on the bed, picked up the cable, and yanked it out of where it was still plugged into the wall.

I glanced down at the intricate design, a mess of deer antlers stacked into a tower-like structure, all supported by a lightbulb at the top.

It also had a weight to it that made it both beautiful and deadly .

I aimed at Micheal’s head and threw that lamp down the stairs with every ounce of my strength.

It was a direct hit. He went limp. I couldn’t say how long I stood there before I took the first step down the stairs, down to where the body of my boogeyman lay.

The body of the man who was supposed to be my best friend, my forever, and the father of my child.

One, two, three. Each step was a descent and ascension at the same time as I grew closer and closer to conquering my personal devil.

I shifted myself towards the wall by the staircase and carefully crept over him.

My eyes darting to the shotgun at his side.

The back end stained red with small chunks of pink wet flesh.

But all the layers of thick black clothes he was wearing made it difficult to tell for certain if he was dead or unconscious.

I stared down at his mask and closed eyes and dared to hope for the former.

Leaning over to observe him more closely, I tapped him twice with my foot. Nothing. Not even the twitch of an eye.

“Finally dead, are you? I wish you had been a better person. Alex at least deserved to have a good dad,” I muttered, unsure of what to call the mix of swirling emotions consuming me.

Then I grabbed the base of his mask from around his neck and began to pull it up.

Slowly revealing the weak jawline and cleft chin I could draw with my eyes closed.

When the mask finally cleared his face and the familiar scars I’d given him across his eyes, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Micheal.

I had no idea if I’d said his name out loud or in my mind.

The world seemed to be spinning as I threw his mask across the room, keeping my eyes locked on the spineless excuse for a man who’d been haunting me with the mere knowledge of his existence.

There were so many nights I went to sleep wondering if I’d wake up while wishing I wouldn’t because I didn’t know what I would be waking up to.

Would I wake to my husband drunkenly hovering over me with his flaccid cock in his hand? Tapping me on the face with it till he became enraged with his own impotence?

That was when the beatings usually started. The only silver-lining I could find was that a fist to the side of the head seemed to sometimes work better than melatonin .

The stinging in my palms brought me out of the onslaught of flashbacks threatening to take over.

I looked up and my hand was raised. My palm open and ready to slam down onto Micheal’s now very red and swollen face as the realization of where I was slowly crept into my consciousness.

I was straddling the chest of my now-dead ex-husband, the father to my son, abuser or not.

And I felt every ounce of my stomach twist up.

Like a spring-loaded trap, I leaped off Micheal and, lacking any balance, staggered towards the kitchen sink.

Making the mistake of looking off into the living room.

My eyes instantly fell on the gruesome remains of Danielle lying on Brian’s stomach, both of their heads unrecognizable.

Hers was a mess of bone and minced meat, the shotgun having painted the wall behind her with red-and-pink chunks of flesh.

Brian’s head, on the other hand, was mostly intact.

More so resembling what I remembered Humpty-Dumpty looking like after he’d fallen off the wall.

Oh, fuck!

I threw myself over the kitchen sink, my arms framing the sides of the rectangular basin. I slapped the faucet handle up just in time to begin dry-heaving and then succeeded, to my dismay and pleasure, in getting sick. Every bit of what I’d had and didn’t have in my belly violently came up.

In just a few days’ time, I’d finally ridden myself of my boogeyman. Lost practically every friend I’d made in the last year and the man who I had fallen in love with, the one I saw a future with. But I wasn’t going to cry. I refused to cry.