Stalked by my Professor Novel

Chapter 26 I weigh my Beretta in my palm, stroking the grip with my thumb as I peer through the peephole in my front door, watching Kai and Haven's Uber retreat down the winding road. How easily power shifts. Me pressing this muzzle to Haven's temples last night. Her using it to force Kai to his knees this morning. And yet, how different things would have played out this morning if Haven had tried a second warning shot, with the single round I kept in the gun lodged in the front door. My mouth twists when I glance down at the hole drilled into the thick wood.

God knows how much it's going to cost to repair that. I might even have to buy a new door. This morning's little power play was fascinating. When I sent Haven into my bedroom for her keys, I never expected her to return with the gun. Never expected her to turn it on us and demand retribution. Every time I put that damn girl in a box, she claws her way back out again. Christ, I enjoyed it as much-perhaps even more-than both of them. I know exactly what it feels like to hold the power after being denied your entire life, and that's what I saw in Haven's eyes this morning.

Power is a strong drug. Instantly addictive, like methamphetamine, or heroin. I've just given Kai and Haven their first taste, and they'll both be chasing that high the rest of their fucking lives. It'll become more important than school, sex...the shiny and bright future they both so desperately crave. In Haven's case, the tightly held control she's forced on herself will start to unravel, laying bare the hot mess that is Haven Lee. Best of all, I'll be right there to witness it. Me and Kai, because he's not going anywhere without Haven.

That poor boy is so lovesick, scientists will never find a cure. Not that I'm complaining. He has such a soft mouth...and those angry, soulful eyes? Jesus, I'm getting hard just replaying the confused glare he gave me when I hit the back of his throat. I chuckle, toying with my split lip as I step into my study, intent on returning the Beretta to my gun safe. Opening the top desk drawer, I feel around for the secret compartment beneath the surface of the desk, slipping out the key hidden inside. I keep the Beretta for home protection, but I rarely feel the need to have it close at hand.

No idea why I put it in my nightstand. Paranoia, perhaps. The discretely positioned door inside my study opens on silent hinges. I'm hit with the familiar scent of stale, musty air and a sharp chemical stench that rises from the deep like Melville's white leviathan. No need to go down the stairs, into the inky darkness below the house. Soon, maybe, but not today. I open the safe buried in the wall just past the doorway and put the Beretta inside.

As I'm about to return the key to its hiding place, my eyes are drawn to the Northern Blue butterfly preserved inside the crystal paperweight on top of my desk. A slow, deep breath fills my lungs as I lay the key on the table and pick up the globe instead. So much heavier than the gun. And yet, light enough, it could float out of my hand. I stroke my thumb over the smooth glass, leaving a smudge over the pristine glass. My younger sister Sybil loved butterflies. Especially the brightly colored ones.

I smile, remembering how she'd wrinkle her nose at me when I told her moths were just as pretty. Outside, a gust of wind blows rain drops against the study's nearly infinite stretch of plate-glass windows. She loved butterflies, and hated rainy days like this. When the sun shone, our mother allowed us outside for an hour each day. For the vitamin D, of course. Evelyn made sure we were as healthy as possible. Less trips to the doctor. Less inquisitive eyes to avoid. Most of our meals consisted of broccoli and brown rice with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Just enough to preserve its vitamin C content, not enough to make it taste good, of course. The only sugar we had came from the brown, pulpy mush of banana, pear, and apple she forced us to eat as one of our daily snacks. Another gust of wind draws my eye outside. The trees sway, barely visible through the pouring rain. Days like this, Evelyn would coop us up inside. Those days were the longest. The hardest to endure. Evelyn played games with us on days like this. To keep us busy, she'd tell us. To pass the time. But those games made the seconds crawl like maggots.

I carefully polish the crystal against my hoodie and set it down on its stand. When Sybil was a tender nine years old, after days of rain, I did the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. I was only a few years older, but I should have known better. I should have⁠- ...promise you won't let me go, Bash... -fucking known better. That's why I had this paperweight made. To remind myself to never, ever, let that happen again. My gaze slides to Evelyn's book, still neatly wrapped. I suppose there's really no need to put it off any longer.

She'll most likely want to discuss it the next time I'm forced to see her. If she's lucid. The curiosity alone would have gotten to me days ago, but I've been too busy. Goes to show how much Haven and Kai's antics have engaged my mind. What I told the dean last night about marking assignments was all bullshit. I don't grade papers. I grade students. I know within two, three weeks how well they'll fare in my class. The rest is merely a formality. Paperwork to fill up my cabinets so it'll look like I give a shit.

I have better ways to spend my time than grading mediocre essays about concepts my students can barely apprehend, let alone dissect and debate. Like reading Evelyn's manuscript. If only for curiosity's sake. I drag it closer before shredding the wrapping. The pages lie neatly stacked in their nest of curled, glossy paper as I rock forward on my palms to read the title page. A sneer pulls at my mouth. Nurturing Cruelty This text is hosted at find⸺novel.net We must be cruel to be kind. by Dr. Evelyn Rooke, Ph.D.

Clinical Psychology, Yale University I'm surprised she didn't include her fucking blood type. The crisp page makes a satisfying crump when I roll it into a ball and toss it in the trash. Next goes the copyright page. I consider dumping the entire thing in the trash, but then a few words in the table of contents catch my eye, starting with the preface. A Redefinition of Love and Nurturing Which leads me to scan the other chapter headings. Each one feels like a nail driven into my nerve endings.

pain threshold controlled stress social isolation trauma inoculation reward deprivation I crumple the page, balling it tighter, and tighter, until my fingers cramp. My breathing is harsh, shallow, almost violent. Then I slowly massage the ball of paper open again, smoothing out the creases. My gaze skips to the bottom of the page. Formation of a Superior Being "You fucking witch," I chuckle under my breath as I lift the paperweight from its stand, bouncing it like a heavy baseball as I turn to look at the forest outside my windows. ...relax, silly Billy. The witch is upstairs...

The enamel on my teeth squeak as I grind them together. I snatch the stack of pages off my desk, littering the floor with shredded wrapping paper. I stare at the mess for a moment before scooping everything into the waste paper basket with my arm. Those that spill onto the floor seem like too much effort to pick up, so I leave them right there. My body feels numb, my mind disassociating as I head into the living area and drop the manuscript on the coffee table, and the paperweight on the couch cushions.

Muscles move using memory alone to make a cup of green tea I know I need but I'm already resenting. Forced to endure awful tasting food, deprived of anything salty or fatty or sugary my entire childhood. No fucking wonder I've become such a hedonist. The cup of bitter tea goes beside the manuscript. I turn on the fireplace, throwing the dreary day outside my windows a defiant glare. My wall phone starts ringing as I sink down into the couch.

I haven't even bothered to turn on my cellphone yet, and while I guess the fact that someone's trying to reach me on the antiquated landline must mean it's important...I could give a fuck right now. "Not today, Satan," I mutter, pushing to my feet. I unclip the ringing telephone from the wall and tug out the cable, leaving the wire dangling as I toss the unit onto the kitchen counter. It clatters loudly, but then it's silent. Blessedly silent. Even the rain simmers down, respecting my wishes for peace and quiet. Nature itself bending to my will, much like Haven and Kai will soon do.

I take my seat again, pick up the paperweight, and start reading. Morning blends seamlessly with noon. Noon with late afternoon. My tea becomes cold on the coffee table. The paperweight grows warm in my hand. My eyes are burning, my jaw aching the harder I clench it. A particularly offensive line makes me throw back my head for a wild laugh. I blink at the low light in the room. No wonder my eyes are so fucking tired. I should eat something. Sleep. Instead, I switch on a nearby lamp, get my bottle of bourbon and a glass.

The first sip burns my lip like fire, but the pain numbs to a sullen ache as I keep working my way through the Gospel of Evelyn. Night comes early, but I don't notice. The only times my eyes leave the page is when I glance up to refill my glass, or roll my eyes at one of her delusional passages. I'm on my fourth glass of bourbon before I break the frigid silence inside my home with an angry mutter. "Jesus fucking Christ." The bourbon's almost empty when I shove the stack of papers off my lap, and rush to my feet. My chest rises and falls. Faster. Hyperventilating now.

Struggling, but unable to calm myself. "Cunt," I puff out, the word sounding too soft, like a bruised, overripe fruit. ...you psychotic cunt... Kai's voice echoes in my head, so loud, I'm forced to drown it out with my own. "You fucking cunt!" There's a deafening crack as the paperweight slams into the sliding door leading onto the courtyard behind my house. I jerk in shock, gaping in horror at the web of fracture lines that appear like magic in the glass.

The Northern Blue trapped inside that clear glass ball spins as the paperweight rolls back to me, stopping only when it hits the edges of the thick rug near the end of the couch. I don't dare go over to pick it up. To check if it's damaged. Schrödinger's butterfly, simultaneously intact and shattered until observed. The uncertainty feels oddly comforting. Control is exhausting, and for once, I'm enjoying not knowing the outcome of my actions. The irony isn't lost on me-I who pride myself on perfect control, undone by words on paper.

I can manipulate Haven and Kai into sexual submission with perfect calculation, yet Evelyn still reduces me to a trembling child. No more. I'm rewriting my own story, turning helplessness into control. Victimhood into mastery. In Haven's corruption, their ruination, I'll find my salvation. My sister's butterfly-just like Sybil herself-deserves freedom, even if that freedom comes through destruction. Haven and Kai deserve the same mercy...as do I. I unplug my phone from its charger, struggling to focus bleary eyes on the screen as it starts up.

Notifications and missed calls scroll over the page, but I ignore them all, tapping out a message to my dear friend Chris. There's only one thing that'll dig me out of this hole-a rail fat enough to make Freud call his mother. Followed by some light stalking, just for the hell of it. Saturday night, Greek Row? Bound to be a party or three. I lick the cut on my bottom lip, savoring the feel of my tongue against the tender wound. Who knows...I might even bump into one of my little pets.