He says I lack emotions. He craves an explosion and searches for my fuse. He presses buttons, digging for the crack in my facade. But he doesn't know it's a facade. He thinks I'm naturally cold and distant. He doesn't realize that he is the thief of my emotions, that he is the shield to my expression. I've submitted to his will, to his desires, to his threatening physicality a hundred times over. And now the only power I feel coursing through my veins is the power to deprive him of my true self. I will not tell him what I'm thinking. I will not show him how I'm feeling.
...But after a stretch of time filled
with unheeded "no's" and attempts to escape his firm grasp, I cannot
help but break down. My body is racked with sobs. I cry uncontrollably
and he holds me, telling himself he's comforting me. Ignoring the fact
that his ludicrous quest for emotion led me to this point. Oblivious
to the smirk of sick fulfillment that is painted across his face.
years later, I ran out of tears. And the only "gift" I could summon
was that of fiery anger. He played with dynamite seldom now. But the
memories remained. And with them, the desire for vengeance.
infidelity was a cowardly way to escape my hell. Perhaps I was in
league with the devil that day. But in my mind, the means justified the
result. And DAMN, did it feel good to make him cry.