𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 [𝟏𝟖+] ✔

61

Freeing ourselves from a toxic relationship is obviously the way to go, but it only ever seems to be the good memories that burn into our brains, breaking our hearts, and driving us to the brink of insanity. We should be thinking of why; why was the relationship bad? Why are we reducing ourselves to nothing when we should be basking in greatness, that we are free from the clutches of the devils that haunt us?

"You're everything to me."

"Are we forever, Aria?"

"I love you more than life itself. I'd die for you if I had to."

"Will you show me how to be a good dad?"

I'm trying to push myself, tightening my grip on the handle of the blade, but I'm overwhelmed with so many memories that I can't see or think properly.

"Fuck, I wish I could fall in love with you."

"I've been trying so fucking hard, Aria. I'm not used to this; I'm not used to any of it."

"I want you to be mine and I'll be yours."

There are so many memories with him that are crushing me. Like the times I'd wake up in his arms, feeling safer than I should've, feeling warmer than I ever had. I remember the butterflies I felt, the ones that made me smile like an idiot and bite my lip when he looked at me.

He was playful, tickled me more than necessary which usually made me want to snap his neck before I'd ride him, fucked him until we both saw white flashes and moaned our names into each other's mouths.

He would be annoyingly cheery at times, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from the couch, turning the music up on my television and pretending he knew how to dance. There would be house music blaring, the fucker would throw me around like a ballroom dancer, spinning me so much I'm surprised I didn't drill into the floor.

Until he did drill me into the floor, hard and fast.

He'd intertwine our fingers while we laid on a picnic blanket, feeling the sun on our skin while he kissed me, soft and slow. I still remember the feeling I'd get when he would run his fingers through my hair, his eyes burning into mine when he told me what I meant to him.

In those moments, he was mine and I was his.

And I thought it was for eternity.

But they are all memories I shouldn't be thinking of. I should be thinking of all the things he has done to me. But no, all I can think about is the good side while I contemplate wiping him from the earth, from my life—forever.

Toby Mitchell, the hot and cold dickhead, the extremely cute but fuckable assistant, the dimpled psychopath, the dark-haired wanker, I fell in love with Whiplash when I should have been running in the opposite direction.

And now I'm sitting with him between my legs, his hands in my hair, my lips fused to his, seconds from driving a blade into his kidney.

I want to save him; I want him to want to be saved without having me as a possession. The few and limited positive qualities he holds aren't enough for him to have a normal life with me or his kids, but enough that he can live, to get help, treatment, anything that doesn't require him to be six feet under.

Plus, this is Toby who's put his life in my hands. Can I really kill him? Am I capable of that type of heinous act?

With lungs that are screaming for oxygen, I feel the burning sensation in my chest, in dire need for them to fill, but I'm frozen in time, in this moment.