UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

THE DEVIL

He smirks like pain is foreplay. Like every bruise he gave me was a love letter I refused to read.

I lunge, teeth bared, fists ready because rage is easier than want, and I'm better at breaking than begging.

"Want to see me bite you again, asshole?" I hiss, knuckles aching for impact. "This time on your face. That scar of yours needs company."

He doesn't flinch. He just tilts his head, eyes gleaming with that sick amusement that makes my stomach twist. "Whatever you say, baby," he says, voice dipped in mockery. "But we both know my scars make you wet. Admit it, you like being ruined."

I growl, but a tear of pleasure streams down my cheek. Not because he's wrong. But because he's right.

"Bruise... like a love letter," I repeat. My brow twitches—book in hand, eyes fixed on the page. Ten seconds. Then my gaze drifts to the white wall of my cell.

"Scars... make her wet; she agrees with him."

Three seconds. A silent scoff escapes. I press two fingers to my temple. I flip the book—just enough to reveal the front cover: Psychopathic Obsession.

For the record, the male lead sexually assaults the female lead. He's a psychopath. A stalker. Obsessed. And the narration—ah, some writers of dark romance nowadays.

You like to write about monsters like me—fantasize, even romanticize monsters like me. But when you see one in real life, you flinch, you run, you judge—even hate.

And since when did tears become pleasure while you're being sexually assaulted—while the bruise reads like a love letter?

And Heather read this...

Well, can't blame her—or the others. Controlling, even changing, dangerous monsters into humans—even if only in fiction—makes sense.

But romanticizing s****l assault, writing it through the victim's POV, then selling it as a form of art...

Well, that's plain stupidity.

A sigh. I return the book to its place on the corner of the small table, along with the other books Heunice had sent me. My hand tries not to reach for the other—those two books that keep me completely occupied—Tagalog for Beginners, 1st and 2nd edition.

Eleven months in incarceration. Been trying to learn the language. I have three of these books. Different from one another. I finished reading the first book a long time ago. The second one, I just received last month, two days after Heather's birthday. The third, only a few days back.

No need to finish the second or third book. Just one page per book is enough—Heather's journal entries, printed as part of them.

Twelve times a day. I read the entries every hour. Today's my 36th day—432 times for the first, 82 for the second. Numbers that measure how far my mind bends toward her.

I look up at the clock above me. 9:00 A. M. I've read them ten times now. Should've been three only. Last time—fifteen minutes ago.

Well, I'm going to reread them. These books, Heunice did the job. Always. I was sentenced last year. I told him to stalk Heather. I was angry. I chose to get angry—I had to.

She tricked me.

I did everything to make her happy. I even got married again. Neither of my past two marriages had happily-ever-after. They were never meant for me, anyway. I'm no hero. Never have been. Otherwise, I wouldn't have ended up in prison.

Doesn't matter that I'm here. It's just that sometimes I ask: Why am I so bad at being good?

I made a conscious decision—I allowed Heather to leave that day. Normal people would call it 'the things you do for love.' To me, it's route optimization.

Letting her leave, I gained access to observe and study her in a free environment.

Years of therapy helped. Heat played a big part. To study her, who was, and still, the trigger of the piercing in my chest, was my motivation—the reason I chose to settle down, get married again—to a woman whose name I can't even remember.

The second marriage—good. I was content. Entertained. Curious. I tried to be—for Heat. Not for the second woman I married. But for Heat. She had to see. A man like me could change.

It would make her happy.

And she was. I saw it—and logged it as data. She was proud of me—that I chose to live a normal life, to be a good husband and a father... to have a family.

But once you commit murder, no matter what you do... karma waits. Though no hard feelings, no foul play—just an accident—my second wife arrived at a hospital over a year ago, brain-dead. I also lost the only woman I love (in my own way) and choose to care about—Heat.

First, Heather persuaded me to cut off my second wife's ventilator a year ago. And I labelled what Heather did as betrayal. Far from the truth, of course. It was only a cover. To have reasons to tell her I hate her. And when I chose to hate someone, I stalked.

What I did was not a lie, but an orchestrated truth.

Now I have her journal entries. Especially the second one:

AUGUST 15, 20xx_Journal Entry #2

It's been three weeks since I wrote the first entry, and over two weeks ago, Jean was diagnosed with mild cardiac allograft vasculopathy, a complication from his heart transplant. Unfortunately, this condition worsens over time and has minimal treatment options—he may eventually need another transplant.

As for his personality changes, being distant and all, the doctor wasn't sure, but he adjusted the prescription and referred us to a psychiatrist, whom we saw that same day.

For the past two weeks, Jean attended two psychiatric sessions. This morning, we returned for the preliminary observation. I wasn't allowed to hear the details—confidentiality. Jean didn't give consent. Because why would I, the wife, need access to potentially life-altering information, right?

Anyway, the psych eval: Major Depressive Disorder, borderline traits, secondary psychopathic tendencies. Translation? Jean's kind of sociopathic, but not "stab-you-in-your-sleep" sociopath. His condition is mild compared to Hugo's. Clinically, it's not ASPD.

So no, Jean isn't Hugo. But he's not exactly "not" Hugo either.

It could be worse. Honestly, I expected darker news. You know that punch-in-the-stomach déjà vu? Yep, that. Mental breakdown loading.

Why me? Why this? Can someone tell me what I did? Please.

God! I sound like a brat. But f*ck this! I will say whatever I want! I'm burned out. I did the best I could to be a good wife... I mean, I—

Anyway, I left the house right after our appointment with Jean's psychiatrist. I needed to breathe. I walked around in the middle of the night and somehow found myself standing in front of a tarot reader's house. It's only a few blocks away.

Guess what? The reader instantly knows, just from a glance, that my zodiac sign is Leo. She quickly scanned my astrology birth chart and said that my Venus placement makes me attract obsessive people in romantic relationships.

Haha. Hilarious. No one's been obsessive about me. Not Hugo. And definitely not Jean. Obviously, they hate me and somehow obsess over me. The universe is cruelly efficient!

Well, the highlighted part of my astrology was that the universe put Virgo on this Earth to break Leo's heart.

Yeah, that's right—Jean is a Virgo, and so is Hugo—Universe's heart-breaking machines. Jean's is September 3, while Hugo's is August 23.

The reader also told me Leo sees Virgo as perfect. Leos think only Virgos are worthy. And that Virgos are perfectionists; they notice Leo's flaws. It frustrates them. If a Virgo gets into a relationship with a Leo, the Virgo will likely turn toxic early and eventually leave—breaking a Leo's heart.

That's when I told her about the two Virgos in my life. Jean and Hugo... they both... still here. Still in my life. Still... not going anywhere. F*ck me!

The reader froze. She downed a full glass of water. Her face changed—worried, tense—then she said something I can't forget: "These Virgos are still in your life because of your Venus placement. They hate you, but they're also obsessed with you. It's a push-pull dynamic. Be cautious around these men, Heather."

By the end of the reading, she pulled tarot cards. She predicted another Virgo would enter my life before the year ends.

And apparently, someone was either stalking me or planning something twisted against me.

This person, she said, was also a Virgo—and she was convinced it was a man because of the Emperor card, which represents order, discipline, masculinity.

Then another card fell from her hand: The Devil, which represents obsession.

Oh, f*ck me! It's just a card... right?

I slouch—the chair, made of stainless steel, doesn't move, remaining still and silent. My hands and the books on the table. I tilt my head up. Eyes close. I count—not three seconds, not ten—sixty.

Every word in those entries. I've memorized them all. Still, I read them. I need to see every single word. Every letter. Every punctuation... everything.

That's the only way—my only way—to feel. To feel her pain. To feel her suffering. To hear her breathing, her voice, her sighs. Her hesitation at every em dash...Her despair at every ellipsis...The rhythm of her fear... the cadence of her restraint—to mirror the architecture of it so I can track exactly how far she's fallen.

So I can measure how far she still has before she breaks.

And I've been like this for 36 days.

"F*ck..." Books go back to their place. I move to sit at the foot of the bed.

My palm should go to my back, near my left shoulder. Yet it goes to my chest instead—the piercing appears. Three seconds. It fades. Fleeting. But the pain in my back remains. I was stabbed there five times two weeks ago. A new inmate. A sharpened toothbrush handle.

It hurts—so much. It's become my benchmark for real pain.

Physical pain—not as intense as the emotional pain Heather has to endure, but it's the closest thing I have to sharing what she feels in this moment. Sharing means understanding.

And I understand her perfectly now.

"Oh, hearth..."

My eyes settle on the picture taped to the wall—static, harmless, the only part of her that can't be taken.

"You were devoured by the man I once assumed incapable of harming you. If I could be stabbed again and again—not with a toothbrush handle, but with a knife—I'd accept every incision in your name. I regret allowing you walk away that day. I regret steering you toward him. I regret repairing what I should've let collapse, the relationship that ended in a marriage that ruined you."

These regrets... I register—nothing more than cognition.

I am not built for retrospection; regret is a defective function humans overvalue. I exist in the present—like any psychopath would. I move on with ease, unless I choose to care enough to convert thought into anger.

And that's the current variable: I am angry. Composed. Controlled. But still angry.

Just hang in there, hearth.

I reach out and stroke Heather's neck with my pointer finger, feeling the smooth surface of the paper as if it were skin—warm, reactive, alive. It isn't, but replication is enough for now.

The photo arrived with the book. It is now here with me affixed to the wall, three feet above the foot of my bed—exact height, exact distance. I placed it there so that the moment I wake, she becomes my first visual input.

The first face I am allowed to touch.

It's her newest photo. Taken by her laptop camera. She isn't looking at me—her eyes aimed downward, distracted, likely focused on the taskbar. Her wavy hair tied high, a clean ponytail, while her teeth lightly press against her thumbnail.

She turned twenty-seven last month. No visible deterioration. She looks exactly as she did the first time I saw her—same smooth skin, same precise symmetry. Still beautiful, still mine, in memory if not in physical jurisdiction.

I smile—minimal muscle engagement—while my finger moves to the bottom edge of the photo, tracing her name. I wrote it the same day I received it. I drew an arrow aligned with the letter 'R', directing it between 'A' and 'T'. The final letter—'E'—was erased with a ballpoint pen.

HEARTH.

Keys rattled outside my cell. Only a millisecond. Then comes the click from the deadbolt. The kind of sound that never meant good news.

Until now.

I rise quick, a grin breaking through.

Finally...

The door opens. Three men appeared: the prison guard (who left immediately); the forensic psychologist, the one who handled my previous PCL-R interviews, whose name I no longer remember. I can't even recall the times he's evaluated me since before the arraignment began almost a year ago.

Names and events that don't matter. A waste of time and energy. Inefficient. Futility. No gain means no point.

But the third man stands beside the forensic psychologist. His eyes: alive on the outside, dead on the inside. His one hand hides in his front pocket. The other carries a thick folder. Grey dress shirt, tucked in; black leather belt, suit trousers—all ironed, unwrinkled. Stood like me. Aged like me. A chair awaits behind him.

Definitely, I remember this man.

Lance Gastini—the senior forensic psychologist of the FBI.

"Hugo, this is..." the other man says, only a background noise. "Lance will be the one to administer and evaluate your PCL-R interview this time."

My smile widens. Perfect. The plan worked.

I've been manipulating my PCL-R evaluations since Madison never surrendered my psychiatric records. She cited confidentiality. Ethics. Reputation. But behind her silence was a senator's phone call, a minister's favor, and a legacy too polished to stain.

I had already confessed during the legal process. The result: no trial and spectacle. Only a man who walked in with guilt folded neatly in his coat pocket. The hostage was safe—two health workers. The gun wasn't real—just a BB gun. I'm not stupid enough to trap myself in an unwinnable situation. Even the physical assault charges were dismissed; I've never hurt anyone.

I, Europe's celebrated architect, was broken. The system, however, was intact—and that was... not my problem.

The judge, a longtime friend of my family (an old-money French family), ruled that my psychiatric records were "not material to sentencing." No one questioned it. The prosecution didn't push. The clerk didn't follow up. The subpoena was never reissued. And I, even in guilt, remained protected—not by innocence, but by inheritance.

No one called it corruption. They called it discretion. They called it privacy. But everyone knew what it was.

A legal silence, I call it.

That gave me room to lie repeatedly during the interviews—feeding the evaluator whatever would keep the session interesting. I told story after story, crafted contradictions, kept the inconsistencies subtle. Boredom is intolerable; everything is transactional. I don't give unless there's something to gain.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Hugo."

I accepted the handshake. "The pleasure is mine."

The other psychologist, now gone.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask. Eyes blinks three times. I'm not a habitual blinker—I can hold eye contact indefinitely—but the mask requires small performances.

"Please, take a seat." He sits, pointing to a chair beside me.

I oblige.

"You caught my attention, Hugo," he says.

I don't respond. I only lift my eyebrows a little—calculated surprise.

"When you first took the PCL-R, you scored 23 out of 40." Lance opens the folder. "That included a near-perfect 15 out of 16 on the first eight items—the section criminal psychopathy. That part of your score has stayed consistent across all three assessments. But not every total score matched. The second one is 32. The most recent showed a perfect 40—meaning every psychopathic trait was marked as fully present."

Subtle. But the corner of his lips crinkles—a smirk. I stay silent.

"However, upon reviewing the written report from the previous forensic psychologist who conducted your past PCL-R interviews, it explains why."

Lance rests both elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "Do you have any explanation for that?"

"Manipulation, charm—and they should hire a competent forensic psychologist to do the job," I declare.

He lets out a short laugh. "You are the first one who has done this." His eyes glint for a second.

Clear. Certain. Lance's about to drop the bomb. Ten seconds. I don't speak, I don't flinch. I don't blink. I just stare back.

The PCL-R itself is garbage. There is no way to produce an accurate score for a criminal psychopath, especially one with primary psychopathy, not merely ASPD. True psychopaths like me—high‑functioning—can turn lies into reality, without difficulty.

Still, the interview is necessary for psychopathy‑related research.

And I do understand its importance. Yet again, everything is transactional—you give, I give. Simple.

"And I get that you are a high‑functioning psychopath." Lance glances inside the cell—Heat's photo. "And you can also be a low‑functioning one if you choose to be, depending on what you want to gain from a situation. You are probably one of the most dangerous psychopaths I've encountered. That's why I'm here."

Silence.

We stare at each other. Reading, testing, measuring. Who would give up first—Lance.

His eyes and face go blank. A kind of expression only a corpse gives. "So, what exactly do you want, Mr. Fabian?"

Only a question after a few moments of silence. The silence that—even I—keeps me engaged. And then he drops it deliberately. Calculatedly. His body posture remains: elbows on knees, hands clasped together, leaning toward me.

A psychopath, indeed.

I adjust my posture, mirroring him. "Her." I tilt my head slightly. Eyes stay on him. Keep it one word. Enough ambiguity to keep him guessing. To test his legitimacy. To see if he can truly carry his title.

Lance sits straight. "Why?"

I lean back, my hands settle on my thigh. "I am not going to tell you why."

A smirk spread across his face. "If you weren't a high‑functioning psychopath, I wouldn't trust you. I know how your mind works, Hugo. And I know she's a subject who consistently produces high-value cognitive data. To put it simply, Heather is an amusement park to you. Full of thrill, surprises... and games."

I blink—a reflex. Not a disorientation. Instead, an admiration.

"But I can't blame you," Lance adds. "She's also beautiful. So tell me—what exactly do you want from her?"

Predictable.

Yet, I know he knows he's predictable. He's pushing me to lie. You're good, Lance. I give you that.

Well, first, I deliberately placed Heather's photo in a noticeable location—no reason to hide it. Let the world see. Let them guess. That only means I am the only one who holds the answer.

Foremost, I don't care what people think.

"Closure," I say—a lie.

"Are you sure that's the only thing you want from her?"

"Yes," I answer quickly. "God, I love that woman. I can do anything for her. I even let her marry the man she loves."

Lance doesn't break eye contact. "I checked your history together, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. She's the only woman you never hurt physically—and... she also wants to see you."

The thrill hits me straight to my c**k. I acquired tattoos over the past ten months. The dopamine hits I had reached. The pain from the needles. All nothing—compared to this.

Pulse instenfies. Lingered. Even crawled under my skin. Thrilled yet controlled. Excited yet composed.

Fuck... I am aroused.

"None of it matters, though," Lance shrugs. "I'm going to know everything inside your head."

A faint grin. "Fire away." My eyes narrow.

"Oh, I will." He leans forward, elbow on one knee, the other wrist resting on his thigh. "Any more demands?"

"I want to talk to her privately, with physical contact."

Lance laughs. "That's too much."

"Come on, man. I'm already here. I've served ten months and I still have more than a year left. And I don't want to add to that. This place sucks."

Silence.

Lance just stares. Likely weighing my sincerity. Eventually, he nods—reluctant. "Fair enough. I can make arrangements. But she is the only one allowed to touch you."

"That's fine with me." More than fine. I would give everything, down to the last drop of my money, just to feel Heather's skin again.

"But," Lance continues, "we're doing the PCL‑R interview today. And I want trust and honesty between us. Can you give me that?"

"Deal."

But I always lie. Worse part—I turn lies into reality. I'm good at it. Sometimes out of boredom. Lying stimulates my brain. I can tell the truth—trust me, I can—but only when I choose to.

Only when it involves you, Hearth.

_____________

Right and wrong collapse once you understand how easily they can be rearranged. And people pretend to choose the right thing. But the truth is... they also lie, they also rearrange. The only difference is that I don't claim righteousness. Redemption is only necessary if it serves me. My desire has its own logic, and I follow it without apology.

–Hugo

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