Sunken

My great love, the one I had built a home for in my heart, shattered me. He didn't do it with a single, violent blow, but with a series of quiet, deliberate movements that left me dismembered, piece by piece. He was the only one I had ever let in so completely, and in his wake, he left a bottomless pit of darkness. I was not just broken; I was unmade. The woman I was before him, with all her hopes and reckless dreams, ceased to exist. In her place was a collection of fragments, each one reflecting a different shadow of his indifference.

The cruelty was in the paradox. He would inflict the pain and then resent me for being hurt. He was the one holding the knife, but he was tired of my bleeding. My tears were a source of exasperation, a chore to be dismissed, as if my grief was an inconvenience rather than the direct result of his actions. I would try to explain the depth of the wound, but he would only sigh and turn away, annoyed by the very existence of the damage he had caused.

He continued to inflict the pain with every casual word, every cold touch, every moment of emotional neglect, all while resenting me for the state he had left me in. I was a mirror, reflecting his sadism, and he hated the image he saw.

In his tired sighs and subtle punishments, a profound shame began to grow in me.

Was I to blame? Was this my fault? I started to believe that my pain was a defect, that my need for love was a character flaw. I would apologize for my sadness, for my depression, for the very fact that I was hurting. I'm sorry for not leaving, I would think, as if staying was the most selfish act in the world. I'm sorry that I'm hurting myself, as if my self-destruction was a burden I had placed on him. I was so consumed by guilt that I couldn't see the truth: his resentment was a way to transfer the blame, to make me carry the weight of his own monstrous actions.

And in that darkness, a different kind of pain began to fester. The shame and guilt curdled into a bitter rage, a desire to inflict the same suffering back on him. I wanted to see him broken, to watch him fall into the same pit of despair. I wanted to hurt you more than you can ever imagine, a voice inside me would whisper. This was the final piece of my unmaking, the part that terrified me most. He had not only ruined me but had also turned me into a reflection of his own darkness. I was no longer just the victim; I was now a vessel for a pain so deep, it sought a way to lash out. I was a ruin, created by him, and now, I was a monument to the very destruction he had caused.

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