I have been watching the brutal Danse Macabre of your relationship for some time now. This is a locked-in pose, the players are frozen in a death throe that is contorted and blatantly obvious to everyone except you, my friend, who believes that strangulation begets willing submission and suffocation begets bliss.
The woman you love is dying. As surely as the seasons turn, this vibrant woman is withering to dust. You have embarked on myriad maneuvers to cut off all routes of egress. Either by feigned helplessness or lies or threat of violence or inflicting chaos on her loved ones, you have assured her compliance. You have cut her off from her comfort, bereft her of safety and companionship, constructed a bubble that encapsulates her completely. And you feel safe, unchallenged, untouchable.
Meanwhile, your captive is gradually disappearing. The lively dreams she once had glimmer faintly in the distance. She speaks of her life in the past tense. She has become a reactionary, cannot move independently without fear of inflicted paralysis, cannot think freely without fear of complete dissolution.
But there is a bell tolling, my friend. It peals loudly. Can you hear? It heralds the exposure of your one fatal mistake. Your plan, your web, this prison you have constructed – it is transparent. We can see through it, to its multitude of flaws, the chinks in its protection. No matter how long it takes, we intend to dismantle it piece by piece, lie by lie, manipulation by manipulation, until all that’s left are pieces of you scattered to all the winds.
Better run. We see through you, too.
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