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The Obsession
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About the Author:
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JESSE SUTANTO is Indonesian-Chinese and grew up in Jakarta and Singapore before moving to Oxford, England, then to California and now Indonesia. This is her debut novel. Connect with Jesse at jesseqsutanto.com.
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Read an Excerpt
“You get me? No boys, Delilah. I mean it. Don’t make me tell you twice.” He gripped his wrench hard and gestured with it for effect. “Say, ‘Yes, Brandon.’”
The rage rose up, blooming, spreading out of control. Stop that, Dee. Control it. Control yourself. My back trembled with the effort staying bent over was costing me. “Yes, Brandon.”
He held my eyes for a second longer, while blood pooled in my head, then he smiled. “All right, now go get my beer. That’s my girl.”
Later, when I finally had some time to let things digest, I’d pinpoint those words as the ones that pushed me over the edge. “That’s my girl.” Pa used to say that to me, usually followed by an affectionate noogie on my head and a proud grin. “That’s my girl,” he’d say when I told him how I completely destroyed my opponent during debate or how I solved the quadratic equation when nobody else could.
And hearing it from Brandon was what made me snap.
I straightened up, my brain buzzing as the blood rushed from my head. And Pink Floyd was still screaming in my ears, that hateful screech of electric guitar scratching my eardrums.
Go get my beer. That’s my girl.
I stared at Brandon’s legs sticking out from under the Camaro. Listened to his off-tune hum. The beer cans that littered the floor, which I would no doubt have to clean up. This was it. My life. It was to be at the beck and call of this man. Even if I were to survive long enough to leave for college in two years’ time, Mom would be stuck with him. No matter how hard I tried to write Mom off, I couldn’t stop playing the movie of her life in my mind. Spoiler alert: It’s not a happy one. It would be a typical Oscar-winning movie—gritty, slow-moving, hard to watch. The leading actress’ performance would be described as “emotionally wrenching” and during interviews she’d talk about how she had to talk to all sorts of trauma experts about various forms of abuse to really get into the damaged head of Ally Moore-Wong. He would tear at her, rip into her, peel her apart layer by bloody layer, until one day I’d come home and she’d be gone, the Mom I knew replaced by some brittle, shrilly bright housewife I wouldn’t recognize. Or maybe she’d just be gone, and Brandon would be on paid vacation.
That’s my girl.
I walked toward the back door. As I passed by the jack that was holding his car up, I swung my foot out and tripped the lever. The car sagged to the floor with terrifying swiftness. Despite the loud music, I heard the crunch as three and a half thousand pounds of solid metal sank into Brandon, crushing his bones. There was a scream, cut short as his ribs cracked and stabbed into his lungs. I stood there, frozen, reality nothing but an abstract concept. Time seemed to stop. Pink Floyd continued blasting in my ears. And still I stood there, staring at the car, registering nothing.
The rage rose up, blooming, spreading out of control. Stop that, Dee. Control it. Control yourself. My back trembled with the effort staying bent over was costing me. “Yes, Brandon.”
He held my eyes for a second longer, while blood pooled in my head, then he smiled. “All right, now go get my beer. That’s my girl.”
Later, when I finally had some time to let things digest, I’d pinpoint those words as the ones that pushed me over the edge. “That’s my girl.” Pa used to say that to me, usually followed by an affectionate noogie on my head and a proud grin. “That’s my girl,” he’d say when I told him how I completely destroyed my opponent during debate or how I solved the quadratic equation when nobody else could.
And hearing it from Brandon was what made me snap.
I straightened up, my brain buzzing as the blood rushed from my head. And Pink Floyd was still screaming in my ears, that hateful screech of electric guitar scratching my eardrums.
Go get my beer. That’s my girl.
I stared at Brandon’s legs sticking out from under the Camaro. Listened to his off-tune hum. The beer cans that littered the floor, which I would no doubt have to clean up. This was it. My life. It was to be at the beck and call of this man. Even if I were to survive long enough to leave for college in two years’ time, Mom would be stuck with him. No matter how hard I tried to write Mom off, I couldn’t stop playing the movie of her life in my mind. Spoiler alert: It’s not a happy one. It would be a typical Oscar-winning movie—gritty, slow-moving, hard to watch. The leading actress’ performance would be described as “emotionally wrenching” and during interviews she’d talk about how she had to talk to all sorts of trauma experts about various forms of abuse to really get into the damaged head of Ally Moore-Wong. He would tear at her, rip into her, peel her apart layer by bloody layer, until one day I’d come home and she’d be gone, the Mom I knew replaced by some brittle, shrilly bright housewife I wouldn’t recognize. Or maybe she’d just be gone, and Brandon would be on paid vacation.
That’s my girl.
I walked toward the back door. As I passed by the jack that was holding his car up, I swung my foot out and tripped the lever. The car sagged to the floor with terrifying swiftness. Despite the loud music, I heard the crunch as three and a half thousand pounds of solid metal sank into Brandon, crushing his bones. There was a scream, cut short as his ribs cracked and stabbed into his lungs. I stood there, frozen, reality nothing but an abstract concept. Time seemed to stop. Pink Floyd continued blasting in my ears. And still I stood there, staring at the car, registering nothing.
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