Psychopaths in Love

I hadn’t seen my ex in two months. We didn’t break up because we didn’t love each other enough. In fact, we loved one another too much to a point where it was ruining our lives. Our independent mental issues could not coexist: my narcissism and his sociopathic personality. Our lack of attention to ourselves was devoured by our constant desire to please one another, and that doesn’t work for a narcissist or a sociopath. I needed constant attention, and he needed to worry about what made him happy. Without the ability to feed our psychosis, we were miserably in love.

Stewart e-mailed me on December 21st. “In Case the World Ends.” I had been out getting drunk with my best friend, Krista and being lavished with endless drinks and shots that were bought for me by admirer after admirer. I had gotten my fix; my ego had been fed. Then my phone buzzed, and I saw that I had a new e-mail. Assuming it was one of the many casting directors looking for me to star in their films, I eagerly opened it. And my heart stopped. After two months of no communication, he still had the ability to stop my heart, causing it to defy gravity and float into my throat.

I looked at Krista, and she saw the panic in my eyes. Prone to anxiety, she asked if I was having an attack. I couldn’t speak, so I handed her my phone. The wideness of her eyes quickly matched mine, but the fear and excitement and anger and elation were not there. Just like that, with the sight of a familiar e-mail address, I was already hopelessly his again. I didn’t even need to read what it said.

He opened up with a lightly humorous, yet I-know-you-way-too-well segment:

I have been trying to think of what I wanted to say for a while. I also have been thinking about what you'll say back…I've come up with:

a. I don't care.

b. Fuck you

c. fuck yourself

d. all of the above

I instantly thought of my response. D. All of the above.

He knew that I’d be defensive, but he’s also smart enough to know that A, B, C, or D were not how I was really going to feel. He ended his letter with the following:

Fuck it. I thought I was supposed to marry you and be with you and I don't know if I wrote this for you but I needed to write it. I told you I'm never going to not love you and that’s true. But we made each other miserable. I know I'll see you again so rather than just get into some huge fight where I say all this, I'd rather say it now. And if you're with a guy if I ever see you I am going to kill him…so make sure you don't like him.

He was supposed to marry me? Neither of us believed in the idea of marriage, yet somehow him saying this made me believe it was what I had wanted all along. He had always had this ability to incept me—to make me believe I wanted something that I never even thought about. He made me think I was wrong, made me feel like our faults were my faults. He had this way of keeping me just loosely attached to a string, so fragile that I was afraid to stray. I would be completely done with him, and he’d tell me I was beautiful, tell me he loved me, compliment me, and my narcissistic ass would be cuddled right back into the crevice between his curled legs and stomach.

He sealed the deal with violence. Aggression and assertion are sexy. He said he would kill a man simply for being the object of my affection. His jealousy turned me on. Stewart’s hatred for a potential suitor other than himself made me want to find a handsome man and introduce them to watch his reaction—to get off on it. His need for me made me want him. I knew, from the first e-mail, no matter how much I denied it, that I would be seeing him. I would do whatever it took to see him, regardless of time, space, or legality. I would chop down anything in my way, like a prince trying to find the tower where his princess awaits. Stewart was my princess; I’m the destructive one.

It took Stewart two days to convince me to drive to Connecticut to see him. He was relentless, as usual. When he wanted something—needed something—he would do anything in his power to get it. He needed to see me. He needed to look at me and touch me and know that I was still real. That I was still his. That we still belonged to each other, even if we weren’t together. He promised me a typewriter, a book by Bukowski, a bottle of whiskey, and money for gas, and I was sufficiently bribed.

When I pulled up in my black Honda Civic—an impulse buy when men were giving me their money to flirt with them and serve food—he met me at the door. I felt awkward and stupid, and I told him I didn’t want to be there anymore. And in usual Stewart fashion, he told me to shut up, and I followed him up to his room.

We talked about books and stories, a safe place for us. We’re both writers. Books are easy; we read a lot of them. He told me about what he’d been reading. He showed me his new tattoo: a Bukowski quote. And I called him a copy cat because I already had one from Bukowski. Secretly, I liked the idea that he was forever imprinted with a quote from my favorite author, a constant reminder of me. We were tied together through permanent ink, permanent love. Feelings that, albeit annoying, still refused to go away.

It took a second of silence. He looked at me, just for that one, solitary second, and he was kissing me. I pushed him away, rather feebly. He ignored my protests because he knew I didn’t mean them. It’s not fair how well he knows me, inside and out, physically-mentally-emotionally. I cried, tears of fear and rage and an accepting sadness. He held onto me, painfully tight, tears in his eyes, feeling his stupidity and weakness.

Then we gave in. We gave into desire and lust and love. If we weren’t inside of one another within seconds, our worlds were going to spontaneously combust. We would stop breathing, stop living, and die right there, half clothed on a broken beige couch.

I didn’t notice that he pulled my pants off inside out, that he had stretched out my sixty dollar Victoria’s Secret bra. I ripped at his belt with one hand, while I ripped at the skin on his back with the other. I bit him, clawed him. I was angry with him. He reciprocated by pulling my hair, grabbing me by the throat. He choked me inches from consciousness. And I liked it. We liked it. We liked this pain that was easing the stabbing of our hearts. The more he hurt me, the more I knew he needed me.

He was inside of me. He was pushing into me, and if he stopped, a bomb would be triggered. We would blow up. The little box would be activated, red numbers would begin a count down, and it would be the end of us. Once the sex ended, it would be the end for us too. We couldn’t let it end.

He spotted the belt on the floor, and without stopping, he tied my wrists tightly, cutting into my thin, pale skin. My eyes widened with excitement. I smiled a smile that only the insane can express. We looked into each other’s eyes, crazed, glazed over with tears and desire and a hypnotizing power that we held over the respective person. He needed to break the spell. He released.

I panicked. I needed him back inside of me. Where are you going, where are you going?! But he returned. He always returned. This time, with a straight razor in his hand. I wasn’t scared. I thought he might kill me, and I didn’t care. If I were to die at any moment, by the hand of any man, I wanted it there, and I wanted it to be him.

I was still tied up, and he remounted me. He stabbed into me as he stabbed the sharp end of the razor to my neck. I lifted my thin neck, urging him to push harder, to continue on, to cut me. Hurt me, I dare you.

I love you and I hate you, he said to me.

I think you may actually want to kill me.

He smiled, and I knew he was contemplating it. He’s agreeing with my statement. Still, I wasn’t scared.

As the razor kept slicing at my throat, he kissed me. It was a hard kiss, a kiss that said I need to be closer to you. I need to be deeper. I need you to open your flesh and let mine in. I tried to do this for him, to tear myself open for him, to help him tear at me. I pushed harder into him, I wrapped my tied arms around his back, and I fucked him. I let him fuck me. I fucked with a hungry need for something lost. If he dug deeper into me, maybe we’d find it.

I wanted to come at the same time. If we did it together, we were in sync. We didn’t need to ask the question. There was no oral communication. Our bodies spoke. And when he came, my body accepted his semen as a part of me. I wanted to keep it locked up in my little box forever. I clenched my thighs around his hips. I seized and moaned, and my eyes rolled back. He yelped like a man getting into a pool of water that’s too hot. His hips pumped awkwardly and without control. He dropped the razor. I tore out of the leather belt. I held him inside of me as we both reached ecstasy. Then we lay there, statuesque, in our wet sin.

The moment was frozen, and the night was not allowed to end. He took my small, naked body into his arms, and I felt empty. I felt like he had taken all of me, and there was nothing left for myself. I cried for my loss. I accepted that I was his, regardless of my displayed independence. And he just held me. He held onto what was his, refusing to ever let it go again, even though he knew that it didn’t matter. Even if he let me go, I’d come back. And even if he disappeared forever, I’d still be the urging voice inside of his head, the love that he couldn’t escape. The woman who took the soul he never thought he had.

There’s no escape for two psychopaths in love.