In the spring of my fifteenth year I began to feel a great pressure placed upon my aching chest as I heaved to breathe through my corrupted lungs. Grey bags weighed me down as my breath turned stale and sour. He did this to me. Every day I struggle to breathe and when all is stripped away, his name shines boldly, it seems as though he is proud of what he did to me.
I knew what he did to the vulnerable, but I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to believe I was just another one of his twisted mind games; albeit he had a certain way with me. A way in which he could manipulate every last thought in my mind into thinking that I loved him. The thought of loving him still clings to my heart strings. A grasp so tight it hurts, but it's a pain I can't not live without.
Madness, I know.
His penultimate act had just begun. By this time I was no longer scared, because he had masked me from the outside world. I was trapped, confined but I wasn't scared because after years of his torture it had become somewhat normal to me. That's when it stopped being fun for him.
You get used to being unwanted after a while; it sort of seems natural being second best. I spent years longing for a slight affection from my mother, just to let me know it was okay. I knew it wasn't okay, but being lied to seemed much better than having to live with a devil and know he might not ever leave.
He started to get bored of me and made his exit but he didn't edge his way out, he didn't slowly reduce contact...