Painter’s Obsession

30. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Byron

M y mother coughs, her lungs barely expanding enough to let her breathe. Her brown hair, once thick and shining, now hangs dull and lifeless around her face. Her eyes, once warm and full of light, are now heavy with something I can’t name—something I can’t forgive.

“Mijo, get away from here,” she says, her voice a rasp as she pulls the oxygen mask from her face.

“Mama, por favor,” I plead, my hands trembling as I try to guide the mask back onto her mouth. Her hand, frail and trembling, bats mine away with what little strength she has left. “Para. Stop.”

Her voice is weak, but the command is firm, and I freeze. The sound of the hospital machines fills the silence, each beep cutting into me, a reminder that her time is slipping away.

I glance at her hand, veins bulging under pale, paper-thin skin. I should hold it, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when everything about this moment feels so wrong.

“Mama,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I struggle to keep the tears from spilling over.

Her gaze locks onto mine, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of the woman she used to be. Her eyes soften, her lips twitching as if she’s trying to smile.

“I know, mijo,” she says softly, her voice barely audible.

I stiffen. The words land like a slap, and I look away. She knows. She’s always known.

“You’re my boy,” she continues, her fingers twitching weakly as if trying to reach for me. “No matter what.”

Her voice is meant to comfort, but it feels like a knife twisting in my chest.

If she knew—if she really knew—why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she stop him from dragging me into the living room, from pulling off his belt while she stood in the kitchen, silent and unmoving?

“I’m not...” The words catch in my throat. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “You didn’t stop him.”

Her eyes flicker with something I don’t want to see—regret, guilt, maybe even shame. “He thought—“ She coughs violently, her chest heaving from the effort.

“Don’t.” My voice is sharper than I intended, but I can’t take it back. “Don’t make excuses for him. For you.”

Her cough subsides, and she looks at me again, her lips trembling. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, but instead, she says, “You’ll be okay, mijo.”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Will I? After everything? You think I’ll be okay?”

Her eyes glisten, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Her hand finally reaches mine, cold and shaking, and I take it reluctantly. Her grip is weak, but I feel it—the desperate need to hold onto something, someone.

“Promise me,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Don’t let him—don’t let what he did break you.”

The lump in my throat grows, threatening to choke me. I should say something, but I can’t. The words won’t come.

The beeping slows, each note dragging longer than the last. Her grip loosens, her fingers slipping from mine.

“Mama?” My voice is barely a whisper.

The flatline hits like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile stillness.

“MAMA!”

The scream tears out of me, raw and broken, as nurses rush into the room. Their voices are urgent, their movements hurried, but they’re too late.

“Sir, we need you to step aside,” one of them says, but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the floor, my eyes locked on her lifeless face.

“Mama...” My voice breaks again, the sob ripping through me.

Behind me, I hear my sister’s voice, high and panicked. “MOM!” She pushes past me, but I don’t turn. I can’t.

I wake up gasping for air, my body burning hot, my lips cracked from dehydration. My chest heaves as I sit upright, the flatline still ringing in my ears, faint but relentless.

For a moment, I swear I can feel her hand in mine—frail, trembling, cold. Then it’s gone, and all that’s left is the silence and the bitterness.

She knew. She let it happen. And I never got to tell her that I forgive her. That I love her.

My body aches, yet the chills don’t stop me from convulsing. The head of my cock, where my foreskin used to be, throbs with a constant, deep ache, and my hand moves to the spot instinctively. The skin is hot to the touch, inflamed, and tender.

“Fuck,” I groan, trying to roll over, but my body won’t cooperate. A single tear slides from the corner of my eye, hot against my fevered cheek. All this rage, all this fighting, all this pain—and I’m helpless.

Looking down, I see the swollen, angry skin. The stitches look wrong, too tight, like they’re about to burst from the pressure. At this point, I know it’s infected. The fever and chills are a clear enough sign. I’m in fucking trouble.

“Ren,” I try to shout, but my voice is a pitiful croak, weak and ineffectual, swallowed by the suffocating stillness of the room.

“You need some antibiotics,” a voice answers, cutting through the haze.

The sound jolts me. It’s too familiar, too wrong. My breath hitches as I lift my head, the effort like dragging myself out of quicksand. She’s there, chained beside me. Naked. Her brown curls fall over her shoulders, her golden skin now pallid and slick with sweat. Her eyes—those green eyes that once danced with life—are now empty, vacant, yet they pierce through me all the same.

“Theresita?” I croak, my throat too dry for more than a whisper.

Her cold hand brushes against my cheek, her touch clammy and lifeless. “You have a fever,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational, as if this is all perfectly normal. Her hand moves to my forehead. “Yep, definitely a fever.”

She leans closer, the chains rattling softly as she shifts. The sound crawls under my skin. “This is bad, Byron,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a faint, almost playful smile.

I close my eyes, the fever making my eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Her cold, clammy hand trails down my face, over my neck, and across my chest, stopping just above my dick.

“What—“ I begin, but the words die in my throat as her hand grips the head of my cock.

The pain is immediate, sharp, and searing. A guttural growl escapes my lips, low and broken, as her grip tightens. The pressure grows unbearable, and I writhe weakly, my body too fevered and weak to fight back.

Her laughter slices through the air, high and manic, reverberating off the walls like a chorus of ghosts.

“You’re going to break, Byron,” she whispers, her voice dripping with twisted glee. Her fingers tighten further, the coldness of her touch a cruel contrast to the heat of the infection. “But first, I’ll show you just how weak you really are.”

I try to twist away, but my body refuses to cooperate. The fever is a vice, pressing down on me, making every movement a herculean effort. Her hand doesn’t relent, her grip a torment that sends flashes of white-hot pain up my spine.

“You’ve always been pathetic,” she says, her voice soft now, almost tender. Her free hand brushes the damp hair from my forehead. “Even when we were kids, always crying, always needing someone to save you.” Her lips twitch into a smirk. “And now, look at you. Still helpless. Still needing someone to save you.”

Her words cut deeper than the pain, and I choke back a sob, refusing to let her see the tears that are threatening to spill.

“I tried to save you once,” she says, her tone shifting, heavy with mockery. “But you wouldn’t let me. You chose this, Byron. You chose to be broken.”

The chains rattle again as she shifts, leaning closer. Her breath is icy against my fevered skin, and I swear I can feel her lips brush against my ear.

“You don’t deserve to be saved,” she whispers.

The room spins, the fever dragging me under, but her laughter lingers, sharp and jagged, like glass splinters digging into my skull. My vision blurs, and the pain in my cock is the last thing I feel before the darkness swallows me whole.