“There’s a necklace on the sink.  Make sure he gets it back.  I’m so sorry.”

I stood staring into the mirror, a half empty bottle of vodka and a bottle of painkillers in front of me, and watched a lone mascara tinted tear trail down my cheek.

What the fuck are you doing? You fucking attention whore. 

That necklace, such a beautiful waste.  I could almost feel his hands brush through my hair, his whiskey scented breath on my ear.  It was pretty though….

You are mine. 

I could feel the numbness spread over my body, such perfect relief.  Like a dream, dancing in and out of consciousness….

Call me, Stella, please.  Please, princess….

I should have known, another failure.  Even death didn’t want to deal with my bullshit.


The Aftermath

Sometimes I feel guilty.

He took advantage. A broken, fucked up man parading as a Dom, latching on to the first submissive he could find. And there was me, so trusting and willing and… completely infatuated.

“Please forgive me. Please, princess. I’ll stop drinking, I promise.”

He didn’t. A few weeks later, I gave up.. a broken little mess on the bathroom floor. Xanax and vodka and relief.

It didn’t work. You know it didn’t work because you’re reading this.

“God, Stella. What’s going on? I’ve been trying to call you. I was about to call the cops.”

The only good thing he ever did for me was call her.

There are a few who still look at me with that worried expression, like I might self-destruct at any moment, the one that says, “I can’t tell if you’re okay or not.” They don’t know the half of it.

“I need you. Please don’t go.. please don’t stop talking to me, princess. It won’t happen again.”

The problem here isn’t that I used to be in love with someone who destroyed every little piece of me, or even that those pieces are still so scattered. The problem is that part of me is still in love with him.. the idea of him, how good it was before it..wasn’t.

So, yeah, sometimes I feel guilty.  All the time.  For nothing.