Page 28 of The Monster and the Masochist

His fingers where no one’s fingers should have ever been.

His disgusting grunts and moans as he forced me to watch while he touched himself.

The ache in my feet from those damn heels he made me stand in for hours.

“It’s not real. It’s over. That happened forever ago. Get a grip, Theo,” I rasped, but nothing was helping.

I knew the only way to make it stop was to get so fucking drunk my mind wouldn’t be able to torture me anymore.

So, I peeled myself off the floor and reached for the vodka, wondering if this time, it would finally be enough to kill me.

The monster that lived inside me was slamming against the bars of its cage, and I was too consumed by what I think might have been fear to care.

I couldn’t be sure it was fear, but it felt similar to how I had felt the day Cal had shown up at Fairview with a near-fatal bullet wound.

Something was wrong.

It had been subtle, but I knew better than to ignore my instincts. I was a pro at recognizing micro expressions in people… yet another byproduct of being raised in an abusive environment. Reading people’s moods and energy was a survival skill that most abused children developed without even realizing it, and I was no exception.

I’d done the breathing exercises my therapist had taught me on the drive back to my condo, but they weren’t working as well as they normally did. I was still trying to self-soothe on my way up the elevator and into my penthouse.

By the time I’d changed out of my Chanel skirt and blouse, I was still trying to quell the pacing beast in my chest, and I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that it wouldn’t settle until I knew Theo was okay.

Growling in frustration, I yanked on a pair of Lululemon tights and a matching black hoodie instead of starting my nighttime skincare routine.

It seemed that despite my best efforts to keep Theo at arm’s length, that little masochist had managed to worm her way onto the very short list of people I considered to be mine, and I was not happy about it.

There was a reason I didn’t have many friends or didn’t participate in any serious, long-term romantic relationships.

And no, it wasn’t because I was a huge cunt, fuck you very much.

Believe it or not, I knew how to be likable. Most psychopaths did. If I cared to, I could easily mask and turn myself into the perfect partner for anyone I set my sights on.

It was easier than you might think.

All you needed to do was learn someone’s interests and act as interested as they were. The next step was anticipating their needs and wants, then making sure to fulfill them. Asking them questions about themselves and giving them your undivided attention when they talked was another sure-fire way to get someone to like you.

Easy, really, though usually pretty boring.

The thing was, you didn’t even have to do this forever. Just in the early stages until they got attached, then you could morph back into your true self, and then they typically began to chase after you, craving the attention and adoration you showered them with in the early stages.

I knew how to do all these things, and when I was younger, I did it frequently. I was popular in school and had an endless line of men following me around like love-sick puppies in college.

The problem was that if I ever did get truly attached to someone, it was usually bad news for everyone involved, including me.

I typically became obsessive, possessive, and extremely controlling.

I saw people as belongings–my therapist’s words, not mine–and I didn’t like to share my things.

I also took very good care of my belongings, but that meant they sometimes needed to do things they didn’t want to do, or risk my wrath.

It was exhausting for me, and it was exhausting for whoever it was my fucked up brain had decided to stake ownership on.

The last time I’d allowed myself to grow attached to someone was in my second year of college. Her name had been Samantha, and she’d been my ‘best friend.’

Well. That hadn’t lasted long. Samantha hadn’t seemed to understand that her other friends were bad for her. She didn’t like that I refused to let her party with them, especially after the second time I’d needed to come pick her up after they’d abandoned her because she’d gotten way too drunk.

It literally felt like I’d loaned my favorite book to someone and they’d returned it all stained and dog-eared.