“Sit still!” Eleanor said, holding a knife to my neck.
“It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” I said, struggling in the handcuffs.
“Smartass.” Eleanor swung her hand across my face. “You’re not leaving until you tell me you love me.”
“Okay. I love you. Good enough? Let me go?”
“You didn’t mean it. Never did. You wanted to get into my pants, and that’s it.” Eleanor’s narrow eyes turned to crinkled slits. “You’re all the same. All you men are all the same,” Eleanor said it as if she didn’t herself believe it.
“But it’s true. I haven’t been good at expressing my…”
“Oh, don’t blame your poor childhood. Be better off blaming me.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could form a word, she said, “And before you start blaming me for this shit, just know that I can see right through you.”
What was Eleanor talking about, and how did a conversation about taking out the garbage divulge into a life or death debate? At this point, it didn’t matter that I was right (and I was right); what mattered is that Eleanor’s perception of me had me on the precipice of being gaslight. I was always close to the edge, just one step away from a total collapse.
Eleanor held her head in her hands. “Why can’t you just love me?”
“I do…”
“If I can’t have you, no one will.”

One thought on “Obsessed

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