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HE'S A DARK & TWISTED SOUL, A TEXTBOOK PSYCHOPATH. BUT SHE MAKES HIM FEEL.
His voice is low and purring when he tells me that he likes the sound of my whimpering. The psycho cat caught himself a little birdie and can’t stop licking his razor-sharp chops. I know I made a big mistake; I let myself believe in lies. Even the eyes of a predator can demonstrate something resembling love, but it’s more a dark, ravenous, insatiable need. His need, his possession, became the antidote to my isolation. But he is the cause of that isolation. His depravity consumed everything in its wake, whittling away at those dear to me and then squashing my will until there was only vulnerability—raw, painful, and bleeding. Like a hole in the heart slowly draining. That’s when he finally got me. That’s when I begged. He likes it when I beg. Down here in the dark, dank tomb, I can feel the shadowed spirit of death lingering in the cold air around me. I try so hard not to panic, but the sinking pit in my gut has a mind of its own, and I can’t stop shaking. Nobody can hear if I scream or cry out in agony. Knowing this makes the pain worse -bottled, pressurized, crushing. Nobody can hear me but him.
