Chapter111 – Mental illness?
His voice dropped to a silky whisper. “There are a lot of women who’ve tried to get close to me. But I’m… not interested.”
Clarissa felt a strange rush of relief—followed instantly by anxiety. “So… there’s no one you like?”
“No,” Atticus said simply. “I don’t want to kiss them. Don’t want to touch them. But when I see you, Clarissa…”
“I told you not to talk about things like that!” she burst out, flustered. Her whole face felt hot, like it might actually start smoking.
How had the conversation gotten here again?
Clarissa exhaled, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She forced herself to look him in the eye. “Atticus, we… I…”
“Clarissa.”
His voice dropped low. Serious. Real. “Clarissa, can you at least be fair to me?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You let other men chase after you. But I’m the only one you push away without even giving me a chance. Just because we grew up together? Just because I’m your bro?”
Clarissa frowned deeply. “That’s not just—Atticus, we are siblings.”
His words were like stones tossed into a still pond, sending ripples through her chest. Unsteady. Unsettling.
“So what?” he shot back, eyes blazing. “We’re not blood-related. I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. What can those other men offer you that I can’t? I know you better than anyone. I understand you better than anyone. Give me a chance, Clarissa. Just a fair chance.”
“Atticus!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “You’re not even listening! I’ve said so much, and you still… still refuse to reflect on your actions.”
She fell back against the sofa with a groan, rubbing her temples. “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I never wanted to upset you.”
“Then why—”
“But I can’t control it.” He stepped closer, slowly, until he knelt on one knee in front of her, eyes wide and pleading. “If love were something we could control, the world wouldn’t be full of broken people.”
Clarissa stared at him, heart caught in her throat. He looked so vulnerable in that moment....
“Sister,” he said gently, “you keep saying this is wrong. That I’m wrong. That I’m abnormal. But am I really?”
“I… I don’t know.” She was exhausted. Emotionally worn thin. She looked at him kneeling there, unsure whether she hug him or run.
“Maybe I should take you to a therapist.”
Atticus nearly burst out laughing—but he swallowed it down.
Instead, he lowered his eyes and said in a small voice, “But I study psychology. And if we really needed help… maybe we should talk to Grandpa Callum. He’s better than any shrink.”
Clarissa’s eyes went wide in alarm. “No! You cannot tell Grandpa!”
Atticus blinked innocently. “Why not?”
“Because he’ll kill you!” she hissed. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
Last time, a man had come to the house asking for medicine and tried to flirt with her. Grandpa Callum hadn’t even let the guy finish his sentence—he smashed his car with a steel pipe and made Atticus beat him within an inch of his life. The guy was still in the ICU.
His family had tried to press charges, but Callum had marched into the hospital himself and snarled, “He molested my granddaughter. Be grateful I let him keep his tongue. One more word from you people and I’ll yank out his oxygen tank myself.”
“Atticus,” she said weakly, rubbing her forehead again. “You don’t understand. If Grandpa finds out…”
If Mr. Callum ever found out about this… he’d beat Atticus within an inch of his life.
The moment the words flew out of Clarissa’s mouth, Atticus grinned.
"You do care about me," he said softly, his eyes glinting. "Still worry about me."
"This isn’t the time for your nonsense…” Clarissa snapped, but her voice lacked conviction.
Lately, she'd begun to wonder whether Atticus might actually be mentally unstable. Maybe that was the only explanation. Why else would a young man be so twisted up with desire for his own sister?
He’d only just turned eighteen. Abandoned at birth. Tossed around like unwanted baggage. Raised in hardship and emotional starvation. Wasn’t this obsession just another symptom of a boy who’d never been properly loved?
And what if he got worse? What if this turned into something dangerous?
What should I do with him? she thought, her chest tightening.
Atticus, meanwhile, noticed her tightly furrowed brow and inward panic, and felt a surge of satisfaction.
She was so clever when it came to work and school. So composed. But when it came to feelings? She was clumsy. Vulnerable.
Otherwise, he would not have gone abroad to study with peace of mind. But he’d almost come to losing her to William.
Seeing his chance, Atticus leaned in and said gently, "You can’t just leave me like this, Clarissa. If there is something wrong with me… if I really can’t desire anyone but you… won’t I be alone for the rest of my life?"
Clarissa’s heart squeezed. "No… No, Atticus. You’ll get better. I’ll find a way to help you. I’ll… I’ll cure you.”
He whispered, eyes dark with something unreadable. "I’m counting on you, sister."
"Me?" she echoed. "I mean… we could go to the hospital."
"That works," he said quickly. “Will you take me tomorrow?”
"Sure. I’ll take some days off from work. We’ll go together."
The words mental illness gave Clarissa something to hold onto. It made her breathe easier—and without realizing it, her tone softened.
From where she couldn’t see, a faint smile curved across Atticus’s lips.
That night, Atticus lay on his bed—the bed he hadn’t touched in so long—staring up at the ceiling. The room was still. Silent.
He turned over, grabbed his phone, and opened his contacts.
He scrolled to a name and tapped.
The line rang several times before someone picked up. The background was noisy, full of moaning and panting, a woman’s breathy cries echoing through the speaker.
"What is it?" the man on the other end asked, voice impatient. "I’m busy now."
Atticus's face was calm, cold. "I need you to do something for me. Tomorrow."
"...What?"
......
By the time the call ended, the clock read midnight. Clarissa would be asleep by now.
Atticus lay still for a moment, staring into the dark, until images of her—soft, sweet, unknowingly seductive—filled his head.
He could see her lying in bed, curled beneath the sheets in those baggy, modest pajamas she always wore. Cotton, silk, linen—never revealing, never showing her shape.
She even wore long pants to sleep. She hid her perfect figure.
Atticus’s jaw tightened. That habit would have to change.
His mind spun, the images becoming clearer—her skin, her hair mussed on the pillow, the curve of her waist as she turned in sleep…
He exhaled slowly, trying to push the heat in his blood down. But he couldn’t sleep.
He glanced toward the bookshelf near his desk. It was crammed full of sketchbooks, journals, and art albums.
Clarissa never touched his things. Whenever he was angry, lost, or out of sorts, he’d turn to the piano… or he’d draw.
He stood, crossed the room, and pulled one of the sketchbooks from the shelf.
Flipping it open, a faint smile traced his lips. It was filled—packed—with Clarissa. Her face. Her eyes. Her lips.
Sketches of her making tea in the kitchen. Reading on the sofa. On her laptop, writing. Laughing. Yawning. Even frowning at him in frustration.
Moments captured from every angle, every age.
From the first time he’d seen her, seven years ago, to the woman she was now…
He had seen her a thousand times, studied her expressions, her body, her mannerisms. He knew her every quirk, every shade of emotion.