Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 76: Hatred Ignited Like Flames

She was strung so tight she thought she could stay calm.

But he was sharp, cold, poisonous, stirring up the afternoon’s burning emotions—rising, exploding, leaving her burnt to ash.

The world spun—hellfire consumed her.

"Whose peace, whose twenty-two is shattered like mine? What peace is it, soaking in a bitter abyss without a glimmer of light, not a drop of sweetness?"

Eleanor struggled to yank out her arm, pointing at her reflection in the window, "It’s her, it’s Eleanor, look at her—isn’t she a rat in the gutter, skittering, hiding, beaten by all?"

She laughed and cried, "I think so. So now I’m neither mad nor stupid, just pretending with this heart that’s lost all hope; still able to scream, argue with you, and that makes me feel strong."

When everything snapped, Eleanor lifted her hand, clutching her face fiercely, her ruin pooling with tears, falling to pieces between her fingers.

Dim warm light shrouded the bed and nightstand, spilling further, blurred on the foot-of-bed couch, the chest in the shadowy corner.

Contours softened—gentle, delicate, cozy, yet just as fragmented.

Beyond remedy.

Cillian’s eyes surged with storm and fury. His arm around her loosened, involuntarily, then tightened again in alarm the next moment.

"Those four years."

His breath was uneven, a strained rasp choked in his throat, his voice harsh as a blade, "That’s what you think?"

Eleanor stared at him, "Then what do you think? In your eyes, what am I? A roadblock to your sister’s happiness, a bitch you punish time after time, who never bows to you; every time I resist, every time I try to live like a real person, you smash me up, break me down, wish so hard to chop me up, grind me to powder, and reshape me."

"How much do you have to hate me to treat me like this—to insist I lose everything, to want it all destroyed, to force me to crawl and lick your and Phoebe’s shoes, like some criminal with my own shackles and confessions, waiting for you to peel off my flesh and bones, tame me as a dog, and sell me off."

"These four years—" Eleanor finally broke, "These four years, what the hell kind of life was I living—"

Outside, the night was bleak and monstrous, reflected in the window—two shadows pressed close, arms outlined before chest, like a knife stabbing through two hearts.

"Eleanor—"

Eleanor’s vision pierced the fog of tears. The deeply shadowed contours of his face, the room’s dim glow all fading to nothingness—only his eyes remained, sharp, attacking.

As if suffering equally—maybe more than her.

Before she could see clearly, he blurred and vanished in the mist of tears, like a bubble.

Outside the door, Auntie King rapped, urgent and suppressed.

Eleanor moved first, fighting with all she had to push him away.

Cillian’s arm held, utterly unmoving, watching her struggle.

The tiny mole on her nose was washed out by wet tracks; her pale cheeks numb and ash-grey, like fragile paper stained with hasty, panicked, terrified marks—sketches of resistance and rebellion.

She fought with everything to get away from him, reject him, never willing to look at him, never wanting to approach him, know him.

His kindness, she forgot—it was evil now.

His cruelty—worse: bad, degraded, malicious, vicious, toxic. He was the bad seed, the nightmare, the source of all upheaval.

Over a thousand midnight embraces, all her summary said was collapse, ruptured guts, shredded flesh.

Cillian suddenly gripped the back of her head, a wet, sticky kiss. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

His cheek rubbed against the tear-streaks beneath her eyes.

The cold dampness drained away what little lingering warmth remained as they touched—held back desperately.

The frantic knocking stopped.

A moment later, Auntie King’s voice broke through, urgent and shaking, "Miss Phoebe’s come downstairs..."

Eleanor bit down hard on his tongue—blood spread through her mouth, sharp and melting.

More piercing than blood was her eyes; fire-lit with hatred, ignited in a blink, their tears oily, dousing the blaze, pouring into her hate.

Cillian let her go—an instant of deadly silence.

The twisting veins in his arm throbbed near bursting, blue and wild.

Eleanor thought he’d hit her, felt his chest about to explode, grinding against her, hard and relentless, pushed to the edge.

But he let her lie down, his rough thumb brushed her flushed lips, covered her with the blanket.

He stared, retreated step by step, opened the door and left.

His footsteps faded, vanishing at the threshold.

Then came Phoebe’s sharp yell, shaking the roof.

"Brother, why are you in Eleanor’s room?"

Eleanor jolted upright.

As someone who’s learned from experience how deadly Phoebe can be, Eleanor’s rule was: Phoebe should never come here.

That cry—if it wasn’t meant to alert Mr. Grant and Mrs. Grant upstairs, Eleanor would not only change her surname, but her whole name—to Idiot.

.........

"You saw?"

Cillian stood at the junction of the hallway and stairs. Half his handsome face hidden in shadow, shrouded and obscure.

Phoebe had just reached the bottom corner of the steps. At his words, she held the banister, craning to look past him, "Brother, that’s Eleanor’s room that way."

Cillian stared at her, alien and icy, sharp as a dagger plunged in dense fog.

Lit by hazy lamps, the pressure around him was all the more real.

Phoebe shrank from him, her gaze dropping, cowed.

Mr. Grant and Mrs. Grant reached the second-floor landing too.

Mrs. Grant, wrapped in her robe, suspicion and alarm in her eyes, "Cillian, what are you doing?"

Cillian was perfunctory, "Something came up, I’m leaving."

Mrs. Grant’s brow pinched, her voice cold as she stopped him, "What’s the matter?"

Cillian raised his head, expressionless, turning to Mr. Grant, "Father, is this house never at peace?"

His eyes were silent—under chandelier light cascading from above, his gaze reflected storms, anger, hate, agitation, gloom, grief, heavy pain, darkness, despair...

So much—far more than one man’s limits could bear.

Dense, raw, utterly destroyed to ash, all sinking into deepest silence.

Mrs. Grant’s heart jumped, a mother’s sixth sense creeping in, unanchored, caught between sky and earth, floating like a castle in the air inside her chest.

She wanted it to touch ground, yet feared it would.

She softened, "How could that be—you’re... what’s wrong?"

Cillian looked only to Mr. Grant, "Is it?"

Mr. Grant steadied Mrs. Grant’s wavering arm, separated by a floor’s height, his gaze met Cillian’s through thin air, "If you seek peace, you’ll have it."

Cillian turned and left.

Mrs. Grant watched his broad back fade at the door. The bitter black wind of winter twisted his thin shirt, tossing as if by the gale, from soft focus to utter darkness—gone, vanished.

Phoebe shrank up the stairs, stopping beside Mrs. Grant, "Mom, is brother angry at me?"

Mrs. Grant’s smile wavered, stiff and forced, "Phoebe, did you really see your brother in Eleanor’s room?"

Downstairs.

Eleanor gripped the doorknob, her palm clammy, cold and damp.