Requiem At Breakfast


She made excuses. So many excuses. For him. For his abusive behaviour misbehaviours. She loved him. So much. So much that it broke her wide open inside. And, in his own disturbed way, he loved her. Wait, does a narcissistic sociopath even have the capacity to love? She could see it, the way his mind fought with itself and the raging passions of his heart. Okay, he got angry a lot. He suffered a terrible childhood. So, of course he should feel anger. No one understood. “When have I ever done anything wrong?” he would ask. He didn’t so much mean to ask this question as he did mean to assert it’s truth. Everyone just seemed to set him off. He blamed them all. Mostly, he blamed her. She blamed herself.

She did so many foolish, naughty and evil things that pissed him off, causing him to drink, rage, insult and leave her. When he drank he became scary, drunk with rage, possessed by rage. Words flew from his lips, words that humiliated her, cut her down to size. When he left, he refused to tell her where he went or when he’d return. She knew he had another girlfriend, a place where he’d seek refuge from her, from her craziness. He denied it, of course. His denial made it all the more real. So, she got on her knees and begged him to stay, gasping between sobs, gasping for air. He looked down on her with perfect disgust. She worried he wouldn’t come back; she’d die without him. Cruelly, he played on her fears and walked out the door. Leaving her in ruins. And how could she blame him? Stupid, stupid lying slut bitch. She provoked him. Every. Single. Time. She got what she deserved. Why did he bother, anyway?



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