To the Point of Obsession

I smiled and got up, having to practically pry Jack's hands off my waist, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, putting them on.
He looked at me and smiled. "You want help?"

"I'm getting it, I'm fine." I went to my bag, taking out a black and white composition book. The paper was withered and torn, and some had various stains on them. I kneeled on the bed and grabbed a pen from the nightstand and started writing down stuff.

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Writing."

"I can see that."

"It's my journal thingy."

He laughed softly. "You are so random, Doll."

I glanced at him, then smiled. "You love me, though."

"I do."

"Did you love your parents?" I asked thinking of his story about his scars, still writing down everything that had happened between the last time I wrote in it and now.

"No."

"Why?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because… I was reading this magazine about how killers and psychopaths start out with a bad home life. And I figured that since you're the only mass murderer I know, I might as well ask you," I said, looking up and smiling at him.

"I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because my dad drank a lot, and hit my mom and me."

"And then when you moved out or whatever… did some girl like, hate you and hurt you?"
Jack looked at me. "And I bet you read in another magazine that bad relationships do the same thing."

"Of course I did," I smiled, biting my lip.

Jack glared at me and got up. "Do you want any food?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry if you're mad at me," I yelled down the hallway after Jack. I frowned and cuddled into his pillow. He was so Bi-polar. He found it fine to ask about me, but when I tried to find out one thing, he'd get all pissy. I came to the conclusion that the real reason he wouldn't sleep with me was because he was on his man-time-of-the-month.