Hateful obsession

Chapter 24

I wanted to have a rest but when I was a comment "This book is like a drug for me." I understood that I just need to publish another one chapter.

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                                      Melissa
"Dirty Games."

6 years ago...

Life and death. How thin is the line separating them? It's something we rarely think about in our everyday lives, but it's always there — hovering like a silent shadow. One moment, you're laughing, breathing, your heart beating steadily. The next, that breath might be your last. How fragile we are, mere mortals, living in a world that gives us no guarantees.

In a single moment, your heartbeat can skip, a lung can collapse, your brain can shut down. We live on borrowed time, in a delicate balance between existence and oblivion. Sometimes it's an accident — a car crash, a fall down the stairs, a choking hazard that spirals out of control. In other cases, it's an illness that creeps up, wearing the body down until the thin line between life and death is crossed.

There are those who face death often — doctors, soldiers, rescue workers. For them, that line might seem no more than a daily challenge, but no less terrifying. Every day could be the last for someone they encounter. Yet we keep moving forward. We work, love, play, and dream. We act as if tomorrow is guaranteed.

This paradox fascinates me the most. How, despite knowing the fragility of life, we continue to make plans, set goals far into the future, argue over trivial things as if we have eternity ahead of us. In a way, it's both the greatest strength and weakness of human nature — our ability to live as if death is secondary.

Then there come moments when life demands we face this truth head-on. Near-death experiences. A serious diagnosis. It's in those moments that we realize just how thin, like paper, the veil between now and never is. Suddenly, every breath, every heartbeat feels precious. The air feels sharper, the light seems brighter. Yet we can't live in constant awareness of this truth. It would drive us mad. We need the illusion of permanence to continue living.

And so, we choose to forget, to focus on the mundane, the everyday. We push thoughts of death away, pretending the line is thicker than it really is. But deep down, we all know it's there, waiting. And when the time comes to face it, it's that awareness that shapes how we meet it. Some do it with grace, others with fear. But either way, we will cross that line — whether by our own hand or by nature's quiet command.

For now, we live in the in-between, where the fragility of life is masked by routine. It's a thin line, but it's all we have. So, we cling to it, cherishing every moment, hoping that when the line is finally crossed, we'll be ready to face whatever lies beyond.

These are exactly the thoughts that almost destroy my mind when I wounded Roman. Yes, he said he was proud of me. Yes, he held me close. Yes, his wound was already bandaged. Yes, the threat of death was gone. But there was something that I absolutely didn't like.

It wasn't about the blood or the fact that one stab from me could have killed a man. It's just that I wanted it. Truly wanted it. It seems I'll need something more than just physical training. Maybe I should learn anatomy too. Yes, exactly. I need to know when I make a blow or fire a bullet — is it fatal or not?

Great, yes, exactly. God, woman, you almost killed your husband, and now you're already planning your next attack. It seems I'm becoming just as much of a psycho as Roman. But on the other hand, maybe that's exactly what's needed in this world. Because being strong is always harder, but who said I'm weak and can't handle it? Oh, maybe 99.9% of people don't believe in me, but there's Roman and his faith. And boom. Almost 100% failure turns into victory. An internal one, for now.