Stockholm Syndrome
one & only.
“Tell me you love me. Lie to me.”
I can feel the pause, I can practically see the shocked, taken-aback look on your face. The phone I hold is cold, but I can barely feel it. I should have dressed more warmly, but I couldn’t stand to be in that house for one more second, with you. You, in the other room, showering, getting ready, perfecting yourself. Not that you need it, right? Because you’re so fucking perfect already. You just like to feel human like the rest of us, like you have to get ready to look good. You didn’t even hear me leave, you didn’t hear the door shut as I left. I couldn’t handle you for one second more. You were smothering me, but I was pulling you closer, tighter against me, wanting to feel the lack of oxygen, the lack of freedom.
Stockholm syndrome. I had learned about it in college, wrote a few papers on it, I think. That is, before you convinced me to leave. Before I dropped it all for you and never looked back. Stockholm syndrome, a condition in which a hostage shows signs of loyalty and attachment to their captor. The love story of you and me.
You knew you had me from the beginning. From those first pretend-awkward first date moments you staged, to the first time you fucked me in your car, you pretended not to know what you were doing, but you knew. You had every second planned out, so that you could get me. And I saw it. I saw it happening, and I said nothing. Because you made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worth all the planning, all the minute details. And the way your hand would linger on my back when you held me, or the way you would kiss me just under my ear because you knew how I loved it.
But none of that really matters, does it? Does it? You still held me captive within my own mind, torturing me with your sweet, dulcet tones and your passing affection. The way I would mean the world one minute and nothing to you the next. And then it was always my fault ‘You’re mad at me’ or ‘What did I do wrong, baby?’. And I fell for it. No, scratch that. I tripped myself. I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I gave in to you. You always had the upper-hand.
“Tell me you love me. Lie to me.”
And I know what comes next: I’m betting on a “Don’t pull this shit, please, just come home” or a “I miss you already, don’t make it any longer”. And I’ll say no. This once, I will say no. The train ticket stays lodged between my fingers, as if any breeze of doubt will blow it out of my grasp. I’m leaving. I’m gone. I wish.
But instead, you say something I’ve never heard you say before: nothing. You choke on your words, and nothing comes out. The in pain in your voice almost kills me when you finally say “I’m sorry”.
I don’t know whether to believe you. You, with your manipulative velvet fingers, the ones that hold my limbs like puppet strings. You, always in control, now breaking down through a telephone wire.
“Please. Please don’t do this”. Your voice cracks on the first ‘Please’, and you try again. Is this just a new stage in your game? Or are you done with playing?
I feel the train ticket slide from my fingers, being sucked into the vacuum of the tunnel. I turn and begin back up the steps of the platform, back to the home of my captor. My love.
I can feel the pause, I can practically see the shocked, taken-aback look on your face. The phone I hold is cold, but I can barely feel it. I should have dressed more warmly, but I couldn’t stand to be in that house for one more second, with you. You, in the other room, showering, getting ready, perfecting yourself. Not that you need it, right? Because you’re so fucking perfect already. You just like to feel human like the rest of us, like you have to get ready to look good. You didn’t even hear me leave, you didn’t hear the door shut as I left. I couldn’t handle you for one second more. You were smothering me, but I was pulling you closer, tighter against me, wanting to feel the lack of oxygen, the lack of freedom.
Stockholm syndrome. I had learned about it in college, wrote a few papers on it, I think. That is, before you convinced me to leave. Before I dropped it all for you and never looked back. Stockholm syndrome, a condition in which a hostage shows signs of loyalty and attachment to their captor. The love story of you and me.
You knew you had me from the beginning. From those first pretend-awkward first date moments you staged, to the first time you fucked me in your car, you pretended not to know what you were doing, but you knew. You had every second planned out, so that you could get me. And I saw it. I saw it happening, and I said nothing. Because you made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worth all the planning, all the minute details. And the way your hand would linger on my back when you held me, or the way you would kiss me just under my ear because you knew how I loved it.
But none of that really matters, does it? Does it? You still held me captive within my own mind, torturing me with your sweet, dulcet tones and your passing affection. The way I would mean the world one minute and nothing to you the next. And then it was always my fault ‘You’re mad at me’ or ‘What did I do wrong, baby?’. And I fell for it. No, scratch that. I tripped myself. I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I gave in to you. You always had the upper-hand.
“Tell me you love me. Lie to me.”
And I know what comes next: I’m betting on a “Don’t pull this shit, please, just come home” or a “I miss you already, don’t make it any longer”. And I’ll say no. This once, I will say no. The train ticket stays lodged between my fingers, as if any breeze of doubt will blow it out of my grasp. I’m leaving. I’m gone. I wish.
But instead, you say something I’ve never heard you say before: nothing. You choke on your words, and nothing comes out. The in pain in your voice almost kills me when you finally say “I’m sorry”.
I don’t know whether to believe you. You, with your manipulative velvet fingers, the ones that hold my limbs like puppet strings. You, always in control, now breaking down through a telephone wire.
“Please. Please don’t do this”. Your voice cracks on the first ‘Please’, and you try again. Is this just a new stage in your game? Or are you done with playing?
I feel the train ticket slide from my fingers, being sucked into the vacuum of the tunnel. I turn and begin back up the steps of the platform, back to the home of my captor. My love.