Page 6 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

“She’s gone because of you, because you put her second to your fucking job.

You stalked her for months, but the second you got a taste of her, you backed off.

You should have known she would become someone else’s fixation.

Look at how she pulled you in.” My head spins, a mishmash of our time together and the things I neglected to investigate.

The man at the post office. Her lips on mine.

The masked man she saw in the woods that wasn’t me.

The sound of her laugh. The footprints in her yard.

Her lips on my cock. The damage done to my truck. Her accepting me, both sides of me.

“FUCK!” I roar.

My fist collides with the mirror, the shards exploding out around me and tinkling down into the sink below.

With that single action, all hell breaks loose.

It’s like every emotion I’ve been holding inside explodes out of me in a destructive force.

I rip the top off the toilet tank and smash it into the sink.

The fragile ceramic disintegrates and crashes to the floor.

It’s not enough. I need more destruction at my hands to satiate the need to destroy the one who took my little siren.

Naked and dripping, toeing the line of a massive breakdown, I rampage through my small house.

I swipe the pictures off the wall in the hallway.

Their protective glass breaks, the frames lying mangled and broken on the floor.

The glass fragments stab themselves into the soles of my feet, but I welcome the pain, I deserve it.

I know it’s nothing in comparison to what Mallory is dealing with.

Blood trails behind me as I move down the hallway towards the heart of the house.

Flipping the dining room table over, it crashes into the chairs placed around it.

They crunch, buckle, and snap as the table rams into them, erratically moving and breaking beneath the wooden table’s impressive weight.

I clench a floor lamp in my fist, ripping the cord from the wall, and snapping its flimsy metal frame over my knee.

Throwing the deathly sharp pieces like a javelin across the room, they crash into the bookshelf, knocking over books I purchased because of Mallory.

I march over to the shelf and push it over on its side, watching as it collapses in on itself the same way my fragile psyche is crumbling before my very eyes.

My bloody feet leave a path of crimson over the pages of some of Mallory’s favourite books as I move to stand at the eye of the storm swirling around me.

As if I couldn’t hate myself any more, I realize how hurt she would be to see the disrespect I show something she loves so much.

The stupidity of my actions only fuels the fire of self-loathing burning inside of me.

Kicking the end tables on either side of the couch across the room, one collides with the wall, leaving a massive gash in the drywall.

The other table flips from the force, sending the table lamp upon it flying into my huge, flat screen TV.

The electricity surges as the metal components touch, but I don’t care.

Let it fucking burn. The TV wobbles on its flimsy pedestal stand, and I wait with bated breath for it to topple over.

It teeters…then rights itself and I’m annoyed.

Storming over to it, I rip it down off the stand with the same force at which I’m being torn apart inside.

It falls into the shattered remnants of my living room, the screen lighting up and flashing before turning black.

Nothing. There’s nothing left to destroy. There’s nothing left inside of me. She’s gone.

I’m a heaving beast, gulping down lungfuls of air to try and calm the rapid beating of my heart.

I move to the kitchen sink, washing the blood from my hands and feet.

My entire body is a live wire, stinging and throbbing in pain.

It feeds my need to rescue my woman. Grabbing the first aid kit from the closet, I head to my room.

“Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?” I mumble over and over until I’m yelling out into the empty, ravaged carcass of my home.

I toss the bandages onto the bed, my line of sight catching on the half open drawer of my bedside table.

Mallory’s sinful black panties are poking out, and I race over to snatch them up.

Raising them to my face, I bury my nose in the fabric.

Her faint aroma snakes into my nostrils and it’s like the fog momentarily lifts.

In a small sliver of clarity, my brain tries to remember if Mal ever told me any details of the man she saw at the post office.

She was so distraught after that encounter, it has to be him…

right? The longer I stew, the more confident I become in my hypothesis.

The monotonous and methodical act of picking glass from my feet and dressing the wounds has my mind alert once again.

No longer clouded by emotions. By the time my hands and feet are ba ndaged, and I’m dressed, I’m almost positive that man is the one who took her.

Especially since my truck was vandalized that day, in what I now realize was a jealousy-fuelled fit of rage.

Did he see her writhing on my fingers? Was he leering after her as she came apart on my tongue?

The thought both repulses and infuriates me.

I’m going to fucking kill him, and I am going drag it out.