“I thought this was about a whale?”
“It is. Captain Ahab hunts the whale that took his leg. He’s completely obsessed with the whale.”
Missing leg and obsessing. Too close to reality.
I shut the book, put it to the side, and picked up the other one. “Have you read Wuthering Heights?”
Cain smiled. “Heathcliff and Catherine are. . .a sort of. . .train wreck romance.”
“How is it a train wreck?”
“It’s pretty hard to look away from their love affair as it quickly tumbles down into destruction.”
Naw. That’s a no too.
I put that book on top of Moby Dick.
Cain chuckled. “You won’t read that either?”
“No.”
“But, it’s good.”
“I don’t want to read about a sad love and I definitely don’t want to read anything about obsession.”
“Sometimes love is sad. And sometimes, it’s fascinating to encounter a character that’s so obsessed he’ll alter his lover’s coffin to bring her closer to him after death.”
Shock hit me. “That’s what Heathcliff did?”
Nodding, Cain rolled to his side and faced me. “There’s a moment where Heathcliff stares at Catherine’s corpse, covered in dust.”
I parted my lips.
“And he bribes the sexton to put his body next to hers when he dies.”
“Nope. I’m good. That’s too sad.” I picked up the last book. “What about Lolita? That has to be a fun read.”
His face screwed in disgust. “You wouldn’t like it. I don’t recommend that one at all.”
“Why not?”
“The hero. . .well he’s not that. You would have to call him the protagonist or unreliable narrator, but he’s no hero.”
“What’s his story?”
“Humbert is a middle-aged French professor who is obsessed with a 12-year old American girl named Dolores.”
I blinked. “Then, who is Lolita? Hopefully, she’s the cop that arrests him.”
“I wish that was the case.” Cain frowned. “Lolita is his private nickname for the little girl.”
“And they encased this story in leather.” I stared at the book. “What happens in the book?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I fisted my hands. “What happens?”
“Humbert becomes her stepfather and ends up molesting her. ”
My stomach twisted. Bile rose in my throat. I pushed the book away from me as if the putrid slime could seep into me. “Why would anyone have that bound in leather and on their book shelf?”
“I don’t know the true answer. It was hard for me to read it. Actually it was unbearable to finish, but that was when I was a dutiful student at seminary.” Cain shook his head. “Many consider it a classic.”
“Pedophilia is a classic?”
“Scholars point to this and that as if trying to intellectualize the true sick nature of the content.”
“Even if it is well-written it’s trash to me.”
“Lolita has been adapted into film. There’s been operas, musicals, and plays all based on the book.”
“The world is so sick.”
“Many argue that the 12 year old is suggestively sexual, but that’s only because the reader is seeing her through the warped lens of Humbert’s obsession.”
“He thinks she wants it.”
“Exactly.”
I kicked the book off the bed. “All these books are about obsession.”
“All the best books are.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course. I’m not talking about Lolita, but the other books are probably classics due to the fact that the characters are obsessed.”
I looked back at the other two books.
“What’s more interesting than obsession?” Cain sat up. “You’re watching this character have this persistent, disturbing preoccupation. And you know he’s being unreasonable, but it’s hard to not root for him to win too.”
Swallowing, I turned back to him.
“There’s a beauty in watching another have such compelling motivation. A true reason to live.” He reached his hand out and touched my chin. “Most can relate in some way.”
“How?”
“I think most people would want to be obsessed with something or someone.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then, what would be the reason to live?” He leaned his head to the side. “Surely, you’re the only reason I now want to open my eyes. I’m completely obsessed with you and I don’t want to be fixed.”
Warmth spread across me.
He trailed my lip with his thumb. “I knew I’d lost my mind long ago, but you’ve truly brought me into madness.”
“Don’t put that on me, Cain. You were crazy long before I came around.”
“But now I’m worse.”
“That scares me.”
“It should.”
I trembled. “It’s not comforting for you to say that.”
“But it should comfort you that I always tell you the truth.”
Well. . .that has to count for something.
He frowned. “You don’t want me to threaten your feet.”
I moved my head from his fingers. “No. I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So, you take back the threat?”
“I don’t.”
I pointed at him. “If you cut off my feet, then I’ll kill you. I don’t know how, but I’ll slide my ass to a knife or gun.”
“I accept that.”
I blinked.
“But the goal is that it never comes to that. The hope is that you try to let me love you the best way I can.” He reached for me again.