Through the eyes of a Psychopath

evil

She wants to leave? She wants to leave. She can’t leave.

“So I will go back to the UK and find some job I suppose…” She trails off. That means she must be unsure or lacking confidence in her decision.

I look at the red wine in her glass, barely touched. It’s not like her to leave the wine untouched and this frightens me more. Any action that I can’t predict leaves me feeling slightly nervous. I need to change tactic. You’re losing her. I down the wine in one gulp, feeling the acidity trickling down my throat. I notice her judging me. Or is that fear? Oh I do hope it is fear. I refill my glass and her words of encouragement wash over me.

“So” She continues nervously “I will see you in the UK, like we discussed. Like we planned”. Yes three weeks alone time. Who can I fuck in that time, who can I…Stop. Focus on the energy source in front of you. I down the glass of wine again. Again there is fear in her eyes. I love it when her eyes widen in fright or when I feel that nervous energy she gives off when she has no idea what she is doing. She gives of such a delicious vibe when she is frightened, like Bambi caught in the headlights. She becomes something soft and moldable, putti in warm hands. She is so easy it hurts, but sometimes she closes up and puts up these invisible barriers. That’s when I become overwhelmed with anger. She is mine after all.

I top up my glass again and think about her leaving and possibly escaping. Women can’t be trusted. I hate her. I want her and I hate her. I have yet to break her but it is not for lack of trying. I try everyday. The light is a lot less bright in her eyes. I can see by the way she walks that the confidence of being young and careless is becoming less visible. I don’t know whether I want her less now. What else can I emotionally beat from her? Yet she may realise what I am when she leaves me to visit family and friends. The people I hate the most as they are constantly in the background, giving her advice and warnings. Warnings against me of course. I hate them.

My mind is running wild. I don’t know what to do first. The sympathy plea? The crocodile tears? The threats? Scare tactics? Love bombing or drop the crazy bomb? Threaten to kill myself? Threaten her? Oh there are just so many options. Fuck it, I’ll do them all.

“Your going to leave me, I know you will. You say these things but you will get home and meet someone else” Accuse! “There’s someone else…There must be”. I feel the ice prickle my heart and I watch her as she defends herself. I know she is telling the truth but to see her emotions spill onto the restaurant table is a treat. That’s it, tell me how much you love me.

I am suitably drunk right now and I am thinking of who I could be screwing. My girlfriend is a cockblock. I want to leave and practically snap my fingers, making her jump. I want to drink more. I want whisky. I make her walk quickly back to the flat. I do not notice my surroundings only the hatred that keeps building. It’s not a far walk, thank fuck, as my throat is dry from the desire of whisky and the copious amounts of cigarettes I have managed to inhale on the short walk. When we arrive I rush towards the Red Label whisky and drink from the bottle. I look at her and feel nothing. Never have and never will. Her very being irritates me and I hate how much she feels. Her sympathy and compassion for others makes me sick and her femininity makes me gag. But oh she is so easy to destroy.

I do it all that night. I drink and cry. My performance is Oscar worthy and for a second I am confused by my act. I can’t remember if this is the part I should cry or get angry? The whisky is hindering my performance. I decide to evoke sympathy from her first but she just looks blankly at me. She has seen this performance before. Changing tactics, I smash up the DVD player and some plates for added effect. The DVD player came apart quickly but in the process cut my hand. I watch as the blood trickles down the side of my palm. I look at her sitting in bed with the white sheets up to her chest. I walk over and wipe the blood in her face, smirking as she flinches. The reaction is just what I needed and I want more. I walk into the bathroom to get a razor blade and scratch her initial into my cheek. I continue to threaten her with promises to kill myself. I can’t get enough of the attention. I want more, more, more. Alcohol, pain, control, reaction.

I do not remember what she said to me as her facial expressions changed from love to hate, fear to pity, sympathy to disgust. I do not remember as I do not care to remember. She gave me what I wanted which was an audience. Plus her feelings for me are real which put me in a position of power. You see, I feel nothing for this woman who I made fall in love with me with false promises of love and protection. I enjoy watching that sparkle of innocence in her eyes when we first met, diminish as each day ends. I can see she is dying inside, sluggish and slow and it fills me with excitement. If I could suck anymore life out of her I would but she has little to give now. So very little that I should look at something fresher, newer. All in good time.

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