Can a psychopath feel love like you and me?? The answer is no. Because whatever they feel is much more dangerous then just love. It's an obsession, a craving, a madness.
That is the only way to explain Killian's feelings for Ophelia
ITS A DARK ROMA...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Ophelia's pov;
Another morning began just the same, with Killian trying to feed me and me refusing. It had been going on like this for days, and I could tell he was losing his patience. I didn't know why I couldn't eat; I used to love food. But now, something about it just made me want to puke. I couldn't get myself to sit up and eat, something that sounded so easy yet felt so impossible to me.
Killian's eyes darkened with frustration. He set the tray aside with a sharp clatter, standing up abruptly. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and helplessness. "I'm trying to take care of you. Why won't you let me?"
I remained silent, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. His anger washed over me like a wave, but I was too numb to respond. I couldn't muster the energy to argue or even acknowledge his words.
He paced the room, his agitation growing. "This is for you, Ophelia," he said, his voice rising. "Everything I do is for you! Can't you see that?"
I closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear, wishing he would leave me alone. The sound of his footsteps, the anger in his voice—it was all too much. My head pounded with the weight of my own thoughts, memories of a life that felt like a distant dream.
After what felt like an eternity, Killian's pacing stopped. I heard him take a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Fine," he said, his tone more controlled but still edged with frustration. "If you won't eat, then we'll try something else."
He left the room, and I was alone again. The silence was almost suffocating, but it was a relief compared to his anger. I curled up on the bed, wrapping my arms around myself. The blanket was warm, but it couldn't chase away the coldness inside me.
Time passed in a blur. I didn't know how long I lay there, lost in my own thoughts. Eventually, the door opened again, and Killian returned. This time, he had a different expression—calmer, but determined.
"I have an idea," he said, his voice softer. "Come with me."
I didn't move. His words barely registered through the fog in my mind. But he didn't give up. He came over to the bed, gently taking my hand. His touch was surprisingly tender, and for a moment, it broke through the numbness.
"Please, Ophelia," he whispered, his voice almost pleading. "Just come with me."
Something in his tone stirred a flicker of curiosity. Reluctantly, I allowed him to pull me up from the bed. He led me out of the room, through the hallways of the beach house, until we reached a door I hadn't noticed before.
He opened it, revealing a room filled with art supplies—canvases, paints, brushes, everything I could need. The sight of it was overwhelming, and for a moment, I felt a pang of something close to hope.
"This is your space now," Killian said, his voice gentle. "You can create whatever you want here. I thought it might help you... to express yourself, to find some peace."
I stared at the blank canvases, feeling a faint stir of something deep inside me. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Killian gently placed a brush in my hand and guided me to an easel.
"Please, Ophelia," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Try. For me."
I looked at the brush in my hand, the familiar weight of it stirring long-buried emotions. Tentatively, I dipped it into the paint and made a stroke on the canvas. The act felt strange, like trying to remember a long-forgotten skill. But with each stroke, the numbness began to recede, just a little.
Killian stayed by my side, watching silently as I painted. The colors flowed from my brush, forming shapes and patterns that began to take on a life of their own. For a moment, I forgot about the prison I was in, the despair that had consumed me. I was just Ophelia, the girl who loved to paint.
As the hours passed, I became more absorbed in my work. It was like a small piece of my soul was being restored with each brushstroke. Killian didn't say anything, but I could feel his presence beside me, a steady, grounding force.
When I finally stepped back from the canvas, I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. The painting wasn't finished, but it was a start. I turned to look at Killian, who was watching me with a look of profound relief and something else I couldn't quite place.
"Thank you," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "Anything for you, love."
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a glimmer of hope. It was fragile, like the thinnest thread, but it was there. And as long as it was, I would hold on to it with everything I had.
But as the days passed, the weight of my reality crashed down on me again. Painting was a temporary escape, a brief respite from the despair that consumed me. Every night, I lay awake, haunted by memories of a happier past. I was trapped in a cycle of hopelessness, unable to find a way out.
Killian continued to bring me to the art room, encouraging me to paint. But the spark that had momentarily flickered was fading. Each day, it became harder to pick up the brush, harder to find any meaning in the act of creation.
One morning, I woke up feeling worse than ever. The art supplies, the canvases—they all seemed pointless. Painting had brought me no real solace. It had only reminded me of the life I had lost, the freedom I would never have again.
Killian entered the room, his face softening when he saw me awake. "Hey," he said gently. "I brought you some breakfast."
He sat beside me on the bed, setting down a tray with my favorite foods. The sight of it made my stomach churn. I couldn't muster any interest or appetite. He tried coaxing me to eat, but I just sat there, staring blankly at the ceiling.
I was mad at him, I suppose. His frustration grew as I continued to ignore him. "You need to eat, Ophelia," he insisted, picking up a piece of toast and trying to feed me himself. I took a few bites out of obligation but eventually stopped, my mouth refusing to open.
Killian's concern turned to anger, his grip on the toast tightening. "Dammit, Ophelia, you have to eat!" he nearly shouted, his voice breaking with desperation. He forced another bite into my mouth, but I turned my head away, unable to take any more.
He left the room, his frustration palpable. I lay there, feeling the emptiness consume me once more. The brief glimmer of hope I had felt was gone, replaced by a crushing sense of despair. I was trapped, not just physically, but emotionally. And I didn't know how to find my way back.
