When your conscience warns you that something is wrong, but you still find yourself going through with it, the inner conflict can be overwhelming. There's a deep sense of guilt that lingers, but at the same time, it's like a force pulling you toward...
As I gazed out the window, a distant memory stirred within me, bittersweet and haunting. His voice, the way he spoke, and how effortlessly he made my heart race came flooding back. Each word we exchanged brought with it a wave of nostalgia—both comforting and painful. It's a feeling I desperately want to forget, but it clings to me, buried deep, refusing to fade.
Growing up as an only child, I was given everything. I was spoiled, no question. Anything I wanted, my parents provided. But as I got older, I began to understand that life wasn't always so simple. By my pre-teen years, the arguments with my parents became frequent, their anger sharp and relentless. Slaps, beatings, and cruel words rained down on me until I started to believe this was normal.
By the time I turned 13, their words had grown even harsher. They'd say things like, "You're completely useless," "You're so stupid," and "All you do is eat and get fatter." Though I had always been a bit overweight, it never bothered me until they drilled it into my mind. Every night, I cried silently, praying to God, "Why did you give me to them? They deserve a better child." In my heart, I blamed myself for everything.
Almost every evening ended in a fight, and one night, it all became too much. The weight of their words crushed me, and in my despair, I started cutting. That night, I felt like my existence itself was a burden. Cutting became the only release, the only way to feel something other than guilt.
Each cut made the emotional pain fade, replaced by a sensation I couldn't explain—a twisted sense of relief. In a strange, dark way, it made me feel alive. I became addicted, needing that pain constantly. It consumed me, bringing a disturbing sense of pleasure I could no longer live without.
Two Years Later
Two years passed. My relationship with my parents improved, though tension still lingered. Then, on the day of my cousin's engagement, everything changed. As guests began to flood her home, I noticed him—an impossibly beautiful man who stood out like a god among mortals. He was Italian, with the kind of rugged perfection that seemed carved by the hands of ancient sculptors. Six feet tall, with piercing green eyes that could stop anyone in their tracks, and a jawline that could cut glass. His stubble added a raw edge to his chiseled face.
I couldn't help but let my eyes roam over him. His white shirt clung to his muscles, stretched taut as if it might tear at any moment. His legs, powerful and defined, strained against his tailored pants. He was magnetic. As he drew closer, I noticed tattoos snaking up his neck and arms, veins tracing the lines of his powerful biceps. He wore a Rolex on his wrist, and even had piercings on his nose and eyebrow. He wasn't just attractive—he was mesmerizing, the embodiment of temptation.
Suddenly, my insecurities crashed over me like a tidal wave. The urge to cut was overwhelming, almost unbearable. Every part of me screamed for the familiar release. I couldn't fight it. I grabbed my purse and slipped away to the bathroom, my hands trembling with anticipation.
Once inside, I quickly stripped off my dress, frantic. I found the blade in my purse, and stared at myself in the mirror, lifting my breasts to reveal the old scars hidden beneath. The sight triggered something in me, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I sliced a deep line beneath my right breast, then another, each cut sending waves of pain and pleasure through me. My hands were slick with blood, but I didn't care. The pain was intoxicating, a high that left me moaning in ecstasy.
And then, the door opened.
I froze, the blade still in my hand, my head resting against the wall. I couldn't move, couldn't think. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw him—the man I had been staring at earlier. He had followed me in, locking the door behind him.
Panic shot through me. I tried to clean the blood with tissues, hurriedly washing the blade, but before I could say anything, he spoke. His voice was deep, steady, almost soothing.
"There are better ways to feel this, you know," he said, his eyes locking onto mine.
Confused, I whispered, "What are you talking about?"
He sighed, bending down to pick up my discarded bra. That's when I realized I was still undressed. Heat rushed to my face as I tried to cover myself, but he kept his gaze firmly on my face. Slowly, he moved my hands away and gently helped me put the bra back on. As he handed me my dress, he spoke again.
"There's a way to experience both pain and pleasure without doing this to yourself. But you're too young. I can't teach you." His tone softened, almost pleading. "Please, stop cutting. Even though I don't know you, I can see you need help. Talk to someone."
He helped me into my dress, carefully zipping it up as I asked, "What do you mean? Please, tell me. I need to know! I can't just go and ask for help."
I begged him for answers, but he only shook his head. Without another word, he left. I collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down my face. For what felt like hours, I sobbed, overwhelmed by everything—the shame, the pain, and the confusion.
After pulling myself together, I washed my face, reapplied my makeup, and stepped back into the world with the same fake smile I'd perfected over the years.
As I wandered through the house, I searched for him, desperate for another encounter, but he had vanished. When I asked my cousin about him, she smiled brightly and said, "Oh, that's my boss. He's the CEO of my company! Normally, he's impossible to reach, but I'm so lucky he came today. He just landed, can you believe it?"
Trying to sound casual, I asked, "Is he staying for the wedding?"
"No," she replied. "He just left. His wife isn't feeling well, so he's flying back in two hours."
Disappointment crushed me. He had a wife—a lucky woman. Any hope of seeing him again faded. I couldn't deny it—I had developed a crush on him, and far too quickly. But I knew what I had to do, as always. I locked the feeling away, deep within me, where no one could find it.
