His Fatal Obsession

Antonio

(His Facial Features if how he would look like, not his clothing)

Antonio POV

I thrust my cock into the prostitute I hired. The unknown woman moaned and groaned as I put my cock inside her. Sweat filled her body, but as for me. I felt nothing.

Pure nothingness.

I don't know why I even hire prostitutes in the first place. However, a part of me knew the reason. It is just because I am lonely and crave some affection and human connection, even with prostitutes.

I know what I am doing is shameful, but I cannot help it. I need to feel another. I thrust harder and faster, but my thoughts overcame me. I pretended to orgasm, and I took my cock off her. I put my clothes on, and I paid her.

I left the hotel room and walked in the dead of night. Some street lights lit my path. I walked through a small town towards the dirt road. I walked past many drunk people laughing or sleeping on the ground like nothing.

Every step I took, I dreaded. I hate being in my village.

I finally got to my village, and when I arrived, I saw some people outside cooking food or talking to one another. When they looked at me, I saw disgust.

The sight they have given was regular ever since I was a child. Ever since I could remember, I was so confused why I was treated the way I was, even by my grandparents.

I thought it was because I misbehaved, so I decided to behave the best way I could. It still did not do any good. Whenever there was a visitor, I was told to say that I was a product of my father's shame.

I was so confused. I never knew my father or my mother. When I turned fifteen, I got the courage to ask my grandparents about my mother and father.

I finally learned the truth.

My mother was raped by an American, and the result was her death to give me life.

I wish I never knew, but I did.

I am a product of rape.

Everyone blamed me for my mother's death and suffering.

I blamed myself, but at the same time, I did not ask for this life! I never wanted to be a product of rape, nor did I want my mother to suffer. I never received love from my grandparents. They fed me and clothed me because they did not wish my mother's death to be in vain. I have been told that I look like her, but in their eyes, they see my father, the rapist.

I made my own house apart from the village, so I don't have to see the rest of their stares. I got to my home, made of cement and bricks. It is small, with one bedroom, one bathroom, and one kitchen. Small because I live on my own.

I got home and opened the door, nothing but darkness, and I knew my way around. I did not bother turning on the lights.

I got to my room and laid on my bed.

Another night alone.

Perhaps I am meant to be alone for the rest of my life. I am thirty-five already, and I have no one.

Perhaps this is my fate, something I deserve.