You are my OBSESSION.....

Chapter 6 : Murder

Next Morning :

Siyara sat under the warm shower, her arms wrapped around her knees as the water slid down her back. Her eyes clouded with the nightmare still chasing her.

She whispered to herself, “How long will I keep running? How long will I keep breaking every time I close my eyes? Maybe… maybe if I try. If I open my heart to someone… maybe love can heal this. Maybe I won’t feel so broken anymore.”

She wiped her eyes, stood slowly.

“I have to do this. I want to do this. For myself.”

---

Living Room – Same Morning :

The TV played muted news, her father hid behind his old newspaper, Aryan was busy scrolling his phone, and her mother was arranging fresh tulips in a vase.

Siyara walked in quietly, dressed in a pale blue kurti. Something about her felt different—not happy, but steady, almost resolute. She served herself a plate of idli and sambar, sat down, started eating faster than usual.

Her parents exchanged a quick glance.

Aryan frowned, lowering his phone. “Siyara? You okay? You’re eating like someone’s about to snatch it away.”

She didn’t reply right away. Her spoon froze midair.

Lifting her gaze first to Aryan, then her mother, she said calmly, “I’ll marry Varun.”

The room went still. Her father’s newspaper slipped in his hand. Her mother froze with a tulip in her fingers. Aryan blinked hard.

“Wait—what?” Aryan laughed nervously. “Did someone spike the sambar?”

Her father cleared his throat gently. “Beta… listen. We’re not pressuring you. Marriage is a big step. Take your time.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Papa.” Her voice firm. “I need to try. I need to give myself a chance to heal. Maybe love can pull me out of this darkness.”

Her mother walked over slowly, kneeling beside her chair, and took her hand. “Are you sure, Siyara? Is this what you truly want—not just something you think you should do?”

“I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, Ma,” Siyara admitted. “But I can’t keep waking up afraid. I want to try something that gives me hope. Maybe Varun’s love can become my anchor.”

Aryan set his phone aside, his joking gone. His voice was soft now. “Sis… just promise one thing. Do this for yourself. Not because you feel broken. You’re not broken. You survived something most people couldn’t. That makes you stronger.”

Siyara looked at him, her eyes tired but honest. “I’m doing this because I want to feel alive again. I’m tired of only surviving. I want to live.”

Her father slowly came over and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. This time, she didn’t flinch.

“Then we’ll stand with you. Every step of the way.”

Her mother smiled through her tears. “You’ve always been our fighter. If this is how you want to find peace, we’ll support you with everything we have.”

Aryan smirked a little, trying to lighten the mood. “But I’m still going to interrogate Varun. Big brother duties. No way around it.”

A faint laugh escaped Siyara’s lips. “Of course. He’s in for it.”

She set her spoon down and took a slow, steady breath—this time not from fear, but from courage.

------

The evening was quiet in Siyara’s home. Both families sat in the living room, tea and sweets neatly arranged on the table between them.

Mr. Mehra, Siyara’s father, cleared his throat softly. “So… about the engagement. We were thinking maybe next month, if that works for you?”

Varun’s mother smiled warmly, folding her hands in her lap. “Next month sounds perfect. We don’t want to delay either, especially since Siyara has agreed.”

Siyara’s mother nodded, but her smile carried a trace of worry. “Yes… we just want to make sure she’s comfortable. She… hasn’t had it easy.”

Varun’s father leaned forward, his voice gentle. “We understand. Varun told us a little—not everything, of course. We only want her to feel safe, never pressured.”

Mr. Mehra’s tone grew firm. “She’s trying. And we’re proud of her for even taking this step. But she needs support. Gentle support.”

Varun’s mother returned his gaze with kindness. “And Varun is patient. He won’t rush her. This engagement isn’t just tradition—it’s a promise.”

Siyara’s brother, Aryan, finally spoke, his voice protective. “I’ll be honest. If she ever feels unsafe or unheard, we’ll step in. She’s not alone in this.”

Varun’s father nodded solemnly. “She won’t be. She’ll be our daughter too.”

A soft silence settled over the room—one of quiet agreement and heavy emotions. Just then, Siyara walked in. Her presence made everyone pause.

She looked around, sensing the atmosphere. “Are you all… talking about me?”

Her mother reached out and gently held her hand. “Just making plans for your happiness, beta.”

Siyara glanced at each face in the room. Her voice was soft but steady. “I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect… but I’ll try to heal. And I’ll try to trust him.”

Varun’s mother’s eyes filled with tears as she smiled. “That’s more than enough, dear.”

---

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the pale curtains of Siyara’s room. She sat on her bed, sipping tea slowly.

The television played quietly in the background—until the words snapped her attention.

“Breaking News!”

“Two mutilated bodies were discovered early this morning near the west side of Ravana Lake,” the reporter said quickly, urgency in her tone. “The men have been identified as two who were accused of attempted assault on a local girl—Siyara, an arts student.”

The cup slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor.

The reporter’s voice pressed on. “The scene was gruesome. Their private parts were severed, their bodies covered with deep whip marks, and in a disturbing detail—their own severed fingers had been forced into their mouths.”

Siyara’s blood ran cold. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Locals report strange sounds near the lake—screams, animal-like growls, and what one man described as smoke moving in the shape of a man.”

The image on the screen showed the lake—dark, mist curling low over the water. Then blurred shots of the men’s broken bodies. It didn’t look like murder. It looked like a warning.

Siyara stood frozen, her chest tight, her mind racing.

Her tea lay shattered on the floor, forgotten.

---

Aarav stood frozen, jaw tight, the TV remote digging into his hand.

The screen flashed with gruesome images. For a moment, the world around him disappeared.

A memory hit him—violent, blood-soaked, unstoppable.

Flashback: Three Nights Ago – Ravana Lake

Rain hammered the ground. Lightning ripped through the sky.

Two men—the same ones who had once tried to destroy Siyara’s life—were tied near the lake, their bodies beaten, their faces unrecognizable. Gags stuffed their mouths.

Aarav stood before them, shirtless, whip in hand, blood dripping from its edge. His eyes glowed with something not human, something far darker.

“Who sent you?” his voice was cold. “Who told you to touch her?”

The first man broke into sobs. “W-We didn’t know who she was! We were paid—just money!”

“Paid by who?”

The second spat blood, shaking. “A voice… on the phone. We never saw them! We were just told to silence the girl!”

Aarav stepped closer, dropping the whip. In its place, he pulled out a curved blade. His tone was deadly calm.

“So you hurt her… for money.”

He crouched low. “Then let money pay for your manhood.”

The night filled with screams. Fingers sliced off and forced into their mouths. Their manhood severed. Blood soaked the ground.

Aarav leaned close, whispering, “No one touches what’s mine.”

He stood over their broken bodies, breathing heavy, drenched in rage and rain. One man tried crawling away.

Aarav’s voice cut through the storm. “Tell your soul, when it reaches hell—she has a shadow now. And I’m not human.”

Their screams faded into silence. Blood spread into the soil, like a curse being fed.

Back to Present

Aarav sucked in a sharp breath, eyes snapping back to the news report.

“The police are calling this a targeted revenge killing, possibly gang-related,” the reporter said. “But the brutality suggests a personal motive…”

Aarav switched off the TV. The room sank into darkness.

“They’ll come now,” he murmured. “The ones behind it all. Let them.”

His voice was quiet, deadly certain.

“Let them come. I’m ready.”

The next morning, soft light slipped through the curtains as Siyara woke. Tied her hair into a loose bun.

Settling into the balcony chair, she wrapped her hands around the mug, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the quiet.

Then—

Her phone buzzed on the table.

Nikita.

Siyara sighed before picking it up. “Hello, Nikita… it’s barely 9 a.m. What’s so urgent?”

Nikita’s voice was as lively as ever. “Get ready. I’ve already put your name down for the international painting competition. And don’t say no. You’re going.”

Siyara frowned. “Nikita, I told you I’m not—”

“No excuses,” Nikita cut in quickly. “You’re a brilliant painter, Siya. This is your chance. I’ll be there in an hour. Wear something decent. And don’t even think of hanging up.”

The line went dead before Siyara could argue.

She stared at the phone, then at her untouched coffee. A small, helpless smile curved her lips. “Looks like I don’t have a choice,” she muttered.

Just then, the sound of a car horn drifted up from the street. Siyara peeked out the window. Nikita was there, waving like she’d won the lottery.

Before Siyara could even grab her bag, the doorbell rang.

Her mother opened it with a smile. “Aare, Nikita beta! Come in, come in.”

“Good morning, Aunty!” Nikita chimed, bouncing inside. “Hope I’m not too early.”

Her mother chuckled. “For you, never. You’ve been chasing Siya about this competition all week.”

At that moment, Siyara’s father walked in, fixing his watch. “Ah, Nikita! So today’s the big day, hmm?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Nikita said, eyes shining. “Today Siya’s going to make us proud. She’s going to win this.”

From the hallway, Siyara appeared, bag in hand. She gave her friend a look, half annoyed, half amused. “Don’t make it sound like I’m off to the Olympics,” she muttered, adjusting her dupatta.

Her father laughed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Beta, every step matters. This one is yours. Go show them what you can do.”

Her mother stepped closer, pride softening her eyes. “All the best, Siya. Remember, your brush knows your heart better than anyone. Just paint what you feel.”

“Don’t worry, Aunty,” Nikita grinned, giving a mock salute. “I’ll bring her back safe—and with a trophy if possible.”

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, the house felt lighter.

As Siyara stepped out with her, her mother called after her, “All the best, beta! We’re with you!”

Siyara turned back, met her parents’ gaze, and gave a small nod with a smile. Then she slid into the passenger seat, and Nikita’s little blue car pulled away.