Status: Active.
The Girl Who Can't Be Moved
Love is Forever
You know what sucks? Being in love with someone who only wants to hurt you - and you know it.
These are the words I write in my journal with the Mickey Mouse cover. It seems childish, and it's supposed to. It reminds me of a easier time, when I wasn't so fully aware of things like pain and love. Life was so much simpler back then, and I'm certain anyone I ask would agree. The problem is, I haven't got anyone to ask. I'm writing this now from my hiding spot - my closet. Of all places, I'm surprised she has never checked in here. Or maybe she knows where I am, just understanding that I need a little bit of privacy. I begin to tap my pencil against the paper in nervousness, trying to think of what to write. My hand stops immediately as I realize what I'm doing. She hates it when I make noises like this. Chewing or snapping gum, tapping my pencil, clicking the pen. There are noises she likes, but I'm not doing any of them. Yet.
I hesitate as I look down at that sentence at the top of the page, my handwriting shaky. What is the purpose of me writing this? So I can leave it here in case she finds some other victim and they can read my words, like in V for Vendetta? That won't be the case. She loves me. I belong to her. She's made it clear from the start that I wouldn't be going anywhere. But seriously, if she ever found out that I was writing this, I would get in serious trouble. I suppose it's my punishment, falling for her.
She wasn't always like this. There was a time when she seemed normal, before I knew much about her. When I started to fall for her. She wasn't entirely sane then, but it was better than this. December of last year, I was her punching bag. She did what she wanted with me, and I allowed her. Because I liked her. Not that I could have put up much of a fight, anyway, but I suppose I didn't even make an attempt to stop her attacks. She would slap me across the face without warning if I said something she didn't like, hit me out of nowhere, slam me against walls, the whole nine yards. It still amazes me that she got away with all of this, that no one ever thought this could lead to something far more dangerous.
We dated for a month, and I didn't realized that I loved her until she broke up with me and it hurt. So much that I tried committing suicide. Three times over a span of two months. During this time, she went "stalker mode" - what my friends liked to call it. She would appear out of nowhere and watch me, occasionally having her spies (read: friends) report my every move back to her. She would post about me on Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter; she just wouldn't talk to me. One day. That all changed.
These are the words I write in my journal with the Mickey Mouse cover. It seems childish, and it's supposed to. It reminds me of a easier time, when I wasn't so fully aware of things like pain and love. Life was so much simpler back then, and I'm certain anyone I ask would agree. The problem is, I haven't got anyone to ask. I'm writing this now from my hiding spot - my closet. Of all places, I'm surprised she has never checked in here. Or maybe she knows where I am, just understanding that I need a little bit of privacy. I begin to tap my pencil against the paper in nervousness, trying to think of what to write. My hand stops immediately as I realize what I'm doing. She hates it when I make noises like this. Chewing or snapping gum, tapping my pencil, clicking the pen. There are noises she likes, but I'm not doing any of them. Yet.
I hesitate as I look down at that sentence at the top of the page, my handwriting shaky. What is the purpose of me writing this? So I can leave it here in case she finds some other victim and they can read my words, like in V for Vendetta? That won't be the case. She loves me. I belong to her. She's made it clear from the start that I wouldn't be going anywhere. But seriously, if she ever found out that I was writing this, I would get in serious trouble. I suppose it's my punishment, falling for her.
She wasn't always like this. There was a time when she seemed normal, before I knew much about her. When I started to fall for her. She wasn't entirely sane then, but it was better than this. December of last year, I was her punching bag. She did what she wanted with me, and I allowed her. Because I liked her. Not that I could have put up much of a fight, anyway, but I suppose I didn't even make an attempt to stop her attacks. She would slap me across the face without warning if I said something she didn't like, hit me out of nowhere, slam me against walls, the whole nine yards. It still amazes me that she got away with all of this, that no one ever thought this could lead to something far more dangerous.
We dated for a month, and I didn't realized that I loved her until she broke up with me and it hurt. So much that I tried committing suicide. Three times over a span of two months. During this time, she went "stalker mode" - what my friends liked to call it. She would appear out of nowhere and watch me, occasionally having her spies (read: friends) report my every move back to her. She would post about me on Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter; she just wouldn't talk to me. One day. That all changed.
♠ ♠ ♠
The sad part is, most of this is true.