SINFULLY MINE | The SINFUL series

prologue

Death is far from scary.

     I've had many psychologists sit down in a room, and explain to me why death shouldn't be a factor of an eight year old's boy mind.

  Especially one that has a background as dark as the abyss, my mind was corrupted in the most disturbing way possible. I knew it.

"There isn't much help for him."

"I'm afraid... there isn't much I can do."

And simply, the one when they offer to send me to the psych ward, just to get me off of my parents hands. My adoptive mother instantly declined every single time, and damn near picking fights with the therapists who could even suggest a thing like that. Whilst my dad was just watching.

        Deep down... I knew much help isn't meant for me.

        But maybe, just maybe... I didn't want it anymore.

  "I think you're..." My new therapist swallows hard. "I think you are denying the truth. Help is something we all need in our lives." She informs with a push of her hair back looking at me with a look that wasn't explainable for a therapist to give her client.

    My head tilts at her assumption. "Therapy isn't guaranteed, Jessica."

   She writes down a few more words, before her eyes flicker back up at me. "Or you haven't found the right ... one to help you."

   The side of my mouth lifted at her comment. "You think something needs to motivate me to think rationally like a regular human being." It wasn't a question, that's what she is saying...

      "Of course, I do believe anything is possible with a push." Those words had a double meaning, a lot of them always came with one.

   I flicked my thumb up and down my lighter, before allowing the flames to sweep across the cigarette hanging from the side of my lip.

    Jessica only watched as I relieved myself, swallowing hard again as if she wanted to stop me from disobeying the rules of her office.

    Her bright and frilly office, the drapes were practically made from Barbie's life in the dream house, courtesy of my youngest sister.

She would have a lot in common with this thirty-something year old woman, who seemed to love having a pink push-bra to play a game of peek-a-boo with me whenever she got me alone.

    With no prying eyes, and without my parents or particularly my mother here to ask for updates. I knew behind these doors, anything was a go for her.

     Jessica Boulard is a classic woman, college degree, white picket fence, and suburban type of person.

   The kind to get married to some prick in glasses that only thinks missionary is the way to fuck your woman. A future like hers was set for life. But that would never be enough, she would still be finding pieces of thrills in her life.

   She will only have one that would only come from sexual novels and a vibrating friend in her lower drawer because her husband will be offended if he knew she used it.

      Being a therapist for me was a chance for her to experience what it's like witnessing the mind of someone in the famiglia, a topic for her friendly phone calls with the rest of her friends tonight.

Her eyes darkened while staring at my lips. "Uh, moving on... What motivates you to open up, and place yourself into someone." She pauses while taking a deep breath. "Into someone's form of trust."

      I took a few more deep inhales, blowing the smoke out into the air before leaning back. My mind being made up of one thing only.

    "This isn't going to work out, Jessica." I say finally...

      She hesitates. "But we haven't gotten through an important detail, the one that made you come in today." I could practically feel her heart beating a mile a minute.

      I shook my head. "We both know this isn't why you want me here."

    Her eyes widened as she watched me stand, the bright pink lips parting with strings of her lipstick still being stuck together. As if she was shocked that I knew the real reason why I'm wanted here.

   They usually did it for the money, the exposure of talking to someone in my line of business, or something else. Something that made going to therapy a lot easier, I found that out the moment I had turned eighteen, hell, even before then...

     When my first therapist slipped her personal phone number into my jean jacket when I was just fourteen years old. 'Call me as soon as you hit the big 18, sweetheart.' And shamefully enough? I called.

    I unbuttoned my pants, as I finally wiped it out. Her eyes immediately went to the real thing she wanted, the head that wasn't exactly placed onto my shoulders.

      "Mr. Malik... This isn't appropriate." She acted offended.

   They always do... "We only have twenty minutes left, sweetheart. I suggest we spend our last time being together, wisely."

      Her eyes flickered up to me, before looking between my legs again. Before slowly placing down her writing pad, standing up and walking over to the door.

   Her hand grasping the knob, before she paused. A sigh came from her, before she let it go and twisted the lock. Her mind is made up.

--

As soon as I walked out of the office, my mom stood up immediately, looking at me with a giant amount of hope in her eyes. She had been supportive of my journey since as long as I could remember, but at some point, I wished she knew that my path was just the same as my dad.

      "How did it go?" She asked the both of us, nervously.

I pulled my leather jacket back over my shoulders, before leaning down to her height and placing a single kiss on her forehead. She let me do it, pulling back and looking me in the eyes. We shared a look.

       She knew....

       My mom always knew...

Her eyes flickered behind me to look at the woman that she paid practically thousands for her son to fuck her brains out, anger rushing through her giant brown eyes.

     Jessica grew incredibly nervous. "Mrs. Malik, I can explain."

     My mom didn't say anything before she looked over at my dad, who stayed nonchalant the whole entire time. Analyzing the scene.

  He didn't need to say anything, this is going to go the way my mom wanted it to go. And whatever his queen wanted to do, he's for it. One hundred percent, the king and queen of Syracuse, New York.

     "Firecracker." His nickname for her is the only thing he managed to say, as our guards stood up. I continued to walk out the door.

       It was best to save us some time if I just left...

  I barely made it to the car before I heard the gunshot go off from inside of the office building, I took out that same cigarette from earlier. Lighting it up as the sun danced across parts of my skin that was exposed. As a few more rounds had gone off in the distance.

     A couple of pigeons around the area flying away in fear from the sound. Hm. At least they knew when to leave when danger came...

   But like I said....

   Death is far from being scary.