Gaslighter

39

          So, in the morning I typed the last words of my screenplay for a short film I had yet to title and prayed would be enough to get me out of this place as unscathed as possible, I felt numb. The tingling sensation in my extremities was dwindling as I got warmer and slowly convinced myself I deserved to recover from something that went far beyond a simple broken heart, but it was much easier to say that in theory. In practice, the mental dissension was eating me alive.

          It seemed so unnatural to even fathom that someone you trusted unconditionally would ever play such an elaborate ruse. They would get inside your head, under your skin, between your bones, bend you at their will, make you question every waking moment, every thought, every memory, every feeling, and steal away little pieces of you, so microscopic at first you didn't even notice until it was too late. That was option number one.

          One of the most frustrating parts of my present dilemma was my inability to remember all the ways Chase had hurt me—my mind, my emotions, my spirit, even my perception of reality—just because I was so desperate to hold on to the parts of him that had loved me. In true selfish nature, it made more sense—at least it did so in my mind—to trust option number two, the one where the relationship had simply soured like so many others did, and I'd been the evil manipulator all along, corrupting the reputable man. However, with each passing day, the fog grew clearer on good days and I realized I wasn't thinking that way out of selfishness.

          I'd been fooled. I'd been lied to. Even my own brain had attempted to warn me countless times, and I'd refused to listen.

          As I stared at my unblinking reflection in the mirror—ghastly pale, with sunken cheeks and dark bruises under my eyes—I forced myself to remember—and, most importantly, to believe—that I was facing the aftermath of the past three and a half years, not just the breakup. It was more than that. It was the aftermath of losing myself along the way, losing my girlhood, no matter how willing I'd been to give it up, and not knowing how to get any of it back.

          He'd called me his so many times, and I'd reveled in it, in the feeling of belonging somewhere, to someone, and it was wrecking me from the inside out to have to think about that being the issue. If he had done all of that just because he knew I was living for those fleeting, infrequent moments of absolute devotion and adoration and gave me just enough attention to keep me locked up, how was I supposed to live with that? How in the world would anyone be okay with coming to terms with that? I'd longed to be chosen and, when he chose me, I'd gladly left everything behind to follow him wherever he'd go, under the impression he'd want me by his side.

          He hadn't wanted me there. He might never have wanted me there after I stopped being malleable into the person he wanted me to be at any given moment, in spite of all my biggest efforts to learn how to switch between different personas at the snap of a finger. I could only lose what once had been mine and now I wasn't so certain I'd ever had an opportunity to call him that.

          I'd been so proud of having been chosen by someone who could have chosen virtually anyone else, after having been overlooked my whole life, and he'd made me feel special. He'd made me feel like I mattered, and then he'd ruined me simply because he wanted to. Simply because he could. I'd never worn the crown or held as much power as I thought I had; it was all him.

          I wasn't sure where that left me. I'd been protecting him from the start, but now that there were seeds of doubt blossoming all around me, it was hard to believe he'd do the same for me if we were discovered or if someone chose to look deeper into my screenplay. Could I trust him to let my name stay clean, or would I forever live in fear of being painted as the criminal, as the villain who had been out for blood all along? Only nineteen and so conniving . . .