The Players' Game

Part 18 || Her Past - Part Two ||

His torture started months after he had managed to completely trap my heart, my emotions grasped tightly in the palms of his hands, my love for him no longer hidden beneath the surface and my affection no longer hidden behind closed doors.

It took me a while to discover how his was deeply woven among the many lies that fell out of his mouth like nectar that I had foolishly been lapping up.

The symptoms started when I would hear him talking is aggressive whispers out in the hallway on the nights he thought I was too tired to be awake. Some days he would slur his tenses with words so intimate you would find release just from hearing them.

Second symptom of the disease that broke us apart were the nights he came home drunk, the smell of someone else faint on his skin mixed with his sweat and the heavy stench of alcohol. He would stagger through the door, a lazy smile spread on his face as he stumbled forward towards me, hugging me in a tight embrace, telling me stories of how 'wild' his night with the boys was, his story flowing so smoothly you would think I was the one being too paranoid and delusional.

I don't blame you. I thought the same thing.

The beatings started once I found out about his nightly deeds, the rules and the games that occurred behind closed doors in his wretched academy. The wind brought along his status, his glorified deeds and the laurel wreaths that came with his position as the ultimate player. That was when I asked him, my heart experiencing a whirlwind of emotions when the words tumbled out of my mouth, "Is this a joke to you?"

I remember the way his face contorted into dozens of different expressions, it was as if the program inside of him had short circuited and that he was struggling to find the best curated answer to his current dilemma, as if I was just another notch in his belt that needed a little fixing.

I remember crying that night when he expressed all his love for me, the number of apologies he choked out came in waves so hard I was convinced I was going to drown. And stupid, naïve me believed him.

Looking back, I still wish I could have slapped myself in the face, possibly gouge my own eyes out, determining them useless as how they failed to detect his actions. He never stopped, he just grew smarter, more careful. He would never come home smelling like someone else but instead he smelt like fresh citrus and another person's body soap. Wild eyes never entered his apartment the nights he was drunk anymore but I knew he had released his anger somewhere else that wasn't the walls of his own house.

When I confronted him about it, he didn't even bother to care anymore.

All his efforts to hide his infidelity went down the drain. Pretty soon, he came home intoxicated and drowning in the smell of his own sweat and expensive perfumes. His own hobbies and delusions became known as I find him mumbling to himself on the nights he spent accompanied by a bottle of scotch instead of vodka. He was a wreck; a ticking time bomb ready to explode at any time but he never let that façade of his deteriorate and yet I was still convinced that I could somehow fix him, as if he had broken parts that needed careful mending.

I cradled his ego like how my father did with mother. I sat down with him the nights he felt like drinking scotch and let his gaze push me further down into a reality I didn't know I couldn't escape. When the beatings started because of his sickness I still stayed, deluding myself into thinking I was special. The twisted reality of being the first woman he laid his hands on made me think that I had a place somewhere in his broken heart.

The truth was, he was never sick.

He managed to pull me into thinking that he was also a part of the broken-hearted club. I was too deep inside my own head to realise how he never cared. The side of him that preferred violence to fulfil his sadistic needs was never born from broken households or broken relationships, it was always a part of him and I had failed to realise his true intentions.

I had succeeded into stopping his nightly hunts for companionship but in exchange, I successfully became his punching bag. Hours of arguments would evolve into physical torture before he would pull away and whisper sweet nothings into my ear as if his abuse never happened. He showered me with luxurious gifts and displayed me at his side in public proudly and people looked at me with envy, as if having his hard-earned loyalty was a fucking privilege.

Over time, his behaviour became more erratic. He no longer needed scotch to fuel his sadistic drive and forced me to bend over too many times while he took the knife and carved his 'love', as he called it, onto my back. Loyalty turned into possessiveness and soon I wasn't even allowed to step one foot out of his apartment without being called a slut.

Naturally, I grew apart from my friends in Roche. A year passed by before I came home to his conquests being done in his, in our, bed with no remorse on his side. I became a shell of cuts and bruises, laying on the floor while I listened to him lay it out on the women he brought home every night.

One day, I heard a series of aggressive pounding on the door with the muffled sound of people screaming my name. Somehow some people had managed to get through the building's complicated security system and fought Chase's lackeys that constantly guarded the hallways and prevented me from going out by myself without his permission. I told myself whoever they were, they would never make it up to my floor, they would never be able to pull me out of the mess I allowed myself to succumb to. It was only when I found myself staring back at Richard's stormy gaze and Nicole's worried eyes that I woke up from the living nightmare I put myself through.

I was starved. Even after I ended up in the hospital for malnutrition and ended up in the psych ward for extreme depression and PTSD, the thoughts of him still swirled inside my head like the plague. Even after all the torture he put me through, I wondered daily for a long time of his whereabouts, and constantly asking why.

Why did he cheat on me? Why did he leave me? I thought I was special. Why? Why—

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Because part one wouldn't make sense without part two. Its a bit of a negative tone but I hope y'all like it. 

16/10/2018 - UNEDITED