Page 42 of Distorted Obsession (The Distorted Trilogy #1)

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“Where the hell did you disappear to Friday night?” Jade asks as we leave practice.

Fixing my bun, I reply, “I got so messy, I needed to go home and shower.”

She hums, but her side-eye lets me know she’s not buying my bullshit. Well, too bad for her because I’m not telling them I was fucked in the best way before being robbed of the best orgasm. I will take this to my grave.

“At least she texted before she ghosted this time,” Paisley snarks. “Where does your delectable ass keep disappearing to anyway?”

“You love my ass, Pais?” I tease, rubbing it against her thigh. It’s a maneuver to redirect the conversation away from anything Jacobi-related.

I can’t share anything about my relationship with Colt and Coop.

Is it a relationship? What the fuck am I even doing? I internally groan at my confusion. I’m surrendering to the brothers of the best friend I killed.

A crack on my ass, thankfully, yanks me from the clusterfuck situation I’ve found myself in. “Who wouldn’t? It’s such a fine one,” Paisley giggles.

“You two are going to make me gag on all the sweetness happening here,” Ayana jokes, but then runs around and plants a smack to each of our asses. Then, she runs when Cammy darts after her.

“Uh-uh… nope. Yuh nuh get fi smacketh mi ass witout me slapping fi yuh,” Cammy shouts, her Jamaican accent more pronounced.

I smile, grateful to have this moment—I never let myself have more than that.

You don’t even deserve to have those.

I push back on my negative self-talk. I’ve been doing better at challenging the voice in my head. I’m just unsure if that’s from my sessions with Dr. Singh or my sessions with Colter and Cooper.

Luckily, I haven’t had any recent episodes as bad as the one after the game. It’s almost like since I signed the contract, my subconscious has decided to give me a break.

“I got her,” I shout, wrapping my arms around Ayana as she passes, determined to enjoy my time with my friends. She squirms, laughing and trying to escape my hold.

“Oh look, if it isn’t the murderer and her cronies,” Candace squawks, and I instantly drop my arms—the mood officially ruined. She’s flanked by Tricia and two other girls whose names I can’t be bothered to remember.

See, you don’t deserve it. That thought sobers me, my smile quickly melting from my face.

“Look, if it isn’t desperate-for-attention-so-she-grovels-at-the-feet-of-anyone-who’ll-throw-her-a-bone,” Jade hisses, crossing her arms.

Massaging my temples, I weigh whether I have the patience for any of these idiots. Since Portia’s death, this group has been going through an internal civil war to determine who will reign supreme.

I quickly decide I’m not in the mood for their bullshit antics—not when I’m having such a great week, even if I’m still being orgasm denied. I curse Colt and Coop for this itch beneath my skin that only they can fucking scratch.

“I’m out,” I announce, prepared to ignore the peanut gallery, but four idiots block my path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Candace barks like the bitch she is.

Clenching my fist, I hiss, “Anywhere but here.”

“Well, that’s too bad because we didn’t excuse you.”

Half-dressed, my friends come to my side. “It’s great that she doesn’t need your permission,” Paisley snaps.

Tricia’s lips part, but Jade cuts her off. “If you come back with ‘but she does need our permission,’ I won’t be held liable for smacking the predictability out of you.”

“Let me by,” I demand, gritting through clenched teeth.

“What? Don’t like being called what you are?” Candace taunts. “Mur-der-er.” She smirks as she singsongs the word. “You killed your best friend, and yet somehow, you feel entitled to walk the same sidewalks as we do.”

I dig my nails into my palms. She’s goading me. I know it in my bones. They want my tears, but they can’t have them today.

“Fuck off,” I growl. Then I shoulder past her and Tricia and head for the locker room exit. Just as the door swings closed, I hear Tricia shout, “I hope you can keep up your fake confidence forever.”

There’s more indistinguishable shouting between those bitches and my friends, but I ignore it, choosing instead to head back to my dorm. My bed is calling me.

A smirk grows on my face as I realize for the first time since arriving at Groveton that some of my old fierceness is peeking through. I give myself a mental high-five, ignoring everything and everybody until I’m nearly in front of my building.

Sighing, I round the corner as my bones cry for a soak in the tub and a deep tissue massage. “Shower, eat, and then sleep,” I mumble the checklist out loud, wishing I could shower from my bed. Someone should seriously figure out a way to make that a possibility.

I’m mulling over what that would entail when I notice some papers posted on the door that weren’t there when we left for practice. Inching closer, the image on the poster comes into view, and I freeze.

I shake my head frantically. “It… it… it c… can… can’t be,” I mutter, and even to my ears it sounds like gibberish.

My clothes feel restrictive, like a cage preventing me from escaping.

Why would they have these?

“Because you need to pay.” The voice in my head snickers, prancing around my consciousness, ensuring I stay stuck, but today something stronger breaks me free.

Sprinting, I bend over and hurl everything and nothing in my stomach at the same damn time.

It feels like an eternity before the feeling abates and I can stand. I wipe my mouth, and the tears I didn’t even notice were falling.

Whirling around, I take in all the photos, but it’s too late. The pictures of me bleeding out on the floor are on every door—every fucking door. My pain is on full display. My weaknesses and failures are plastered for all to see.

How could anyone have these?

My body—limply prone on my bathroom floor.

I’m barely covered—my white bra looks like it was intentionally dyed red.

Blood is puddled, pooling around the open wound of my left wrist as the silvery-colored blade almost glints from the sunlight beaming through the window.

My skin looks ashen, lacking its usual bronze vitality.

A piece of me dies where I stand as I become aware of the crowd growing around me.

“Not so fucking bold now, are you, murderer?” Tricia’s acidic question burns through me, eviscerating any progress I’ve made toward healing. No, not healing— existing . I don’t think I’m capable of healing. That would require me to forgive myself, and that’s something I can never do.

You’re not worthy of it .

Whispers echo around me, and I finally unfreeze. Rushing forward, I rip my most private moments down and run inside, hoping the closed door will buffer the ridicule. But as I step into the building, I see they’re also lining the walls—each at a different moment spelling the word “ freak .”

One is me squeezing my belly fat.

Another is me with my razor cutting into my thigh and the look of euphoria on my face.

Then, there’s a photo I’ve never seen before. It’s Fah. She’s lying on what’s supposed to be the plush lavender carpet of her familiar room, but it’s not light purple anymore. Instead, it’s stained in crimson.

I can’t think. I’m just stuck. Bile rises in my throat at the sight of Fah lying nearly identical to how I was in the pictures outside. Then, I see red. A rage I’ve never felt engulfs me, wrapping around me like protective armor.

Stomping forward, I rip down each image, tearing them to shreds and following the path it takes me on. I don’t realize where I am until it’s too late. I’m back in the hallway where I swore I saw Farrah—where I chased her, hoping my best friend wasn’t truly gone. That’s when I hear it.

“I hate you.” Farrah’s scream reverberates off the walls.

Spinning around, I look for where the audio is playing from, but I come up empty.

“You’re a fucking murderer—a monster who preys on the weak.” The vehemence in my best friend’s voice flay me open. All I see around me is blood?—

Blood on the walls…

Blood on the floor…

Blood on my skin.

And I begin to rub. “Get it off me,” I cry out hysterically.

“I need to get it off me… I’m so dirty. I need to—” My rambles become incoherent, even to my ears.

Then, I feel it in my throat— the blood, it’s choking me.

I can’t fucking breathe, but this isn’t a blissful, euphoric feeling.

It’s a punishment. One I’ve long since deserved.

That doesn’t stop me from fighting. I don’t like this.

Clawing at my throat, I try to find a way to get the blood out. I just need to get it out. But I know I’ve lost the battle when spots dance before my eyes. I feel my body hit the floor with a thud. There’s no pain. I can feel nothing.

Tired, I just let go, allowing death to take me. I find no peace here as the silence rings loud—death is a lonely journey, but I embrace it with open arms.

Noise breaks through the silence, and I hear Farrah’s voice calling me.

I run toward it, catching a glimpse of her.

I smile, happy to be reunited, until she turns around.

White, vacant eyes cry tears of blood. “You made me do this, and I’ll never forgive you for that” are the last words I hear before it goes black.