His obsession POV
"I'm home and I am starving," I announced loudly. His head turned toward me, and his expression was something I couldn't quite explain.
His eyes sparkled, and he smiled at me. Even sitting on the couch, he exuded a presence that hinted at his height. He looked like some rich guy who enjoyed mingling with the top tier of society.
A few years back, he didn't look this intimidating, but now his gaze held something I couldn't comprehend.
'What's he doing here?'
"I'll get the table ready. Go and shower. Your uncle's son is here after so many years. Greet him with respect," Mom called from the kitchen.
'Like he deserves any of my respect,' I thought bitterly. He used to hit me whenever we played games together, pull my hair if I played wrong, call me stupid names, and make fun of me.
When he was 15, Uncle Mario sent him to New York for better studies. We lived together until he turned 18 and moved to a different city.
We barely heard from him. He'd mostly call Dad to ask about work and us. And now, after years, he visited us out of nowhere.
"Hi, Cal, missed me?" he called out from the living room, waving at me like I was his long-lost friend and he was ecstatic to find me today.
I hate to admit it, but he actually looked good in that suit. His hair was brushed back with gel, his beard freshly trimmed, and his jawline sharp—like he'd been mewing all these years to achieve it.
His suit hugged his toned body, highlighting his broad shoulders and lean frame. Damn it, he was handsomely handsome now.
I still hated him.
I rolled my eyes and forced a smile that was far from welcoming. "Hello, Denver," I said.
'I hate you so much.' Glad I didn't say that out loud, but I wish I could let my intrusive thoughts win someday.
Before he could respond, I turned and headed to my room, throwing my backpack onto the bed. I flopped down on my back, staring at the ceiling.
'What am I gonna do about prom? What should I wear? Oh god, I have nothing.'
My thoughts drifted back to Denver.
'What's the matter? Why is he here? Did he actually miss us, or does he have some other plans?'
"Are you going to come or not?!" Mom's voice boomed from outside, snapping me out of my thoughts. I groaned, got up, and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower.
___________________________
As I sat at the dinner table, the clink of cutlery and chit chatting filled the room, but my father was absent.
He'd called Mom earlier, letting her know he'd be late from work.
"So, what's going on Denver?" Mom asked, her voice casual as she took a bite of her food.
"Not much, really," Denver began, his tone carrying the air of someone used to commanding attention.
Of course, the son of a shrek, lived alone and learned things on his own, now is flourishing but my parents can't let me have a sleepover!
"I'm in the process of building up my own architecture firm. The recent recruit has brought in some very experienced architects with exquisite designs." He paused, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over to me before quickly averting as mom could have seen him.
"The projects I've signed with international delegations have really boosted my company's ranking," he continued, his gaze now fixed on me with a hint of scrutiny. I shrugged, focusing on my plate, trying to ignore the way he seemed to measure my actions.
Mom, ever curious, prodded further. "That's amazing. Are you thinking of moving here back? How's Los Angeles treating you?"
"Uh, not right now," Denver replied, "The company still needs me in Los Angeles. But I did find a beautiful property here that I'm considering investing in. That's why I came to New York to discuss it with Uncle Richard."
"Why don't you stay here tonight? He said he is going to be late." Mom suggested. "You can talk to him in the morning—it's Sunday after all."
Denver nodded, "I would love to, I still miss the childhood days, we used to play a lot. But you know Things aren't going to be the same as we have got a future to build."
Play yeah.. Tell me if beating and yanking my hair is called playing. I hate him and I hated speaking to him.
My parents always gave him more attention as he was my father's elder brother's son.
Denver's attention shifted entirely to me, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and something else. "What about you, Cal?"
"Yeah, what about me?" I shot back, my tone defensive despite my best efforts to remain calm. He smiled at my response, and I could feel irritation boiling inside me.
He would always use a nice, caring tone In Front of my parents but whenever I was alone with him he would just look at me with something in his eyes that I can never spell out.
Attraction?? Hate??
"You've gone a bit weak, haven't you? Aren't you taking care of your diet?" His eyes searched mine with an intensity that felt more intrusive than caring.
"What does that have to do with you?" I snapped, my voice tight with frustration. "And no, I eat just fine. You don't need to worry about me."
Mom, ever eager to seize a moment to criticise, jumped in.
"Don't you see her? She's practically a skeleton. She barely eats and refuses to listen to me. What is she going to do with that body of hers? Walk the runway?"
WOW!!
Her words hit me like a physical blow. I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor.
Without a word, I fled from the table, the tears that had been threatening to spill now racing down my cheeks as I retreated to my room.
Slamming the door behind me, I threw myself onto the bed, the soft thud of my body hitting the mattress barely muffling my sobs. My mind swirled with thoughts, each one sharper than the last.
What had I done to deserve this? Why couldn't my mother ever treat me fairly?
She seemed to relish in highlighting my insecurities in front of everyone, as if by embarrassing me, she'd make me understand something about myself.
It was as though she believed I was incapable of making my own choices, of deciding what was best for me.
Every time she spoke, it felt like she was driving home a point—she saw me as a problem to be fixed rather than a person to be loved.
Her words echoed outside of the bedroom. "I'm not her enemy, I want the best for her," I could almost hear her saying, but it did nothing to ease the sting.
"Yeah you call it care yet you can't see what your daughter wants." I laughed through my tears hugging the pillow close to my chest.
All I wanted was her affection, her kindness—perhaps a soft, loving word rather than a harsh critique.
Instead, she treated me as if I were still five years old, unable to navigate life on my own. It was as if my growth and independence were threats to her sense of control.
Why me? Why was I the only one subjected to these relentless interrogations and criticisms? Just because I am older…?
My siblings, younger and less experienced, won't be questioned for nothing! I couldn't help but feel like I was being punished for wanting to take charge of my own life.
In the silence of my room, my heart ached with the unfairness of it all. I felt isolated in my pain, unsure of how to bridge the gap between what I wanted for myself and what my family was willing to accept.
The pain was too much to bear. I started crying, my sobs turning into hiccups. I could hear Mom outside at the dinner table, talking and laughing, my siblings joining in with their own laughter.
They were happy without me. They were eating, having fun, and no one was coming to call me out of my room.
Of course no one would, As I left on my own.
The tears came harder, burning my cheeks as they streamed down. I got up, wiped my face, and stumbled to the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
My face was red and swollen, my eyes watery and bloodshot. I was shaking, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. I took a deep, shuddering breath, muffling my cry with my hands.
"Shhh.. oh my god. Please, Cal, it will be fine. You will soon go somewhere
Better than this place and you will get what you deserve."
I keep repeating myself while breathing in and out slowly.
I opened the drawer and saw two blades inside. Without thinking, I picked one up and started slicing my arm. One cut, then another.
I kept going, the cuts not deep enough to be fatal but enough to draw blood. Blood dripped from my arm, and with each drop, my tears slowed.
I stopped crying, stopped shaking, and just stared at the wound. Four cuts, blood trickling down onto the floor.
I raised my arm to the mirror, looking at my reflection. "One day, this is all gonna be over," I whispered to myself.
"One day, Calista, please hold on. Everything is going to be fine." But then, as if in a trance, I spoke back to my reflection.
"When? When is everything going to be fine? When I'm dead? No one ever tries to talk to me about my feelings. They think I'm just moody and too old to need help. They think I'm capable of handling everything on my own but would never let me, but they don't see how much it hurts."
I was exhausted from it all, but no more tears came. I splashed water on my face over and over, trying to wash away the pain.
I grabbed some tissues from the cabinet, cleaned up the blood on the floor, and threw the tissues in the bin.
Taking a band-aid from the side table and carefully covering my cuts. I didn't want anyone to see them. I'd always been hiding them, wearing long-sleeved shirts and hoodies to conceal the marks.
I stumbled back to my bed and collapsed onto it, my body heavy with exhaustion. As I lay there, my mind drifted into a merciful, dreamless sleep, escaping the torment, if only for a little while.
A creak shattered the silence of my sleep, my eyes bolting open. I blinked against the darkness, adjusting to the shadowy figure standing beside my bed.