I had memorized every detail of this beautiful woman in front of me. The dirt under her fingernails, the vein that throbbed on the side of her neck as she screamed at me, the subtle bumps that ran down the center of her back when she curled into a ball in the corner to sob after each of our visits - every little feature made me love her even more. The sound of her voice, and the way her tone would change depending on if she was begging me or threatening me, was music to my ears. I began to crave the smell of the sweat that would coat her skin during our rendezvous in the humid basement. I knew she could never leave me, and that kept me going during the day and helped me sleep at night.
My feelings for her weren’t like this at first. She was intimidating. She didn’t talk to our coworkers unless she needed to, and she only needed to when they were in trouble or she had a demand to make. She was the type of manager that everyone dreaded, a bitch that asked too much and allowed very little. It wasn’t until our sessions in the basement had been happening for some time that I began to adore her. I know she felt the same way, despite the names she called me and the angry look in her eyes at the beginning of our nightly dates. She would soften once she let her anger out every evening, and after she would have a good cry she would beg me for forgiveness. Our relationship would seem flawed to outsiders if they saw us, but they just wouldn’t understand.
The day the police took her from me was the worst day of my life. They obviously thought they were helping when they removed the restraints from my hands and feet and led me out of her basement and into the ambulance. They were confused and upset that I didn’t want to leave. The doctors have said things like “Stockholm Syndrome” and “PTSD”. They just don’t understand true love.
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Credits to: photofreecreepypasta
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