Imagined Inner Monologue of a Narcissistic Abuser (would never happen in real life)

The Mysterious Entry

The handwriting is uneven, jagged in places, almost frantic, and the entire entry is crossed out, yet the words beneath remain legible. The page is torn at the edges, as though it’s been ripped out and hastily returned to its place. The voice is raw, haunting, and unsettling in its honesty.

When I first saw you, I felt butterflies.

You were standing in front of that hotel, just off the busy street, the world rushing by around you as if it didn’t matter. You wore a light blue trench coat, cinched at the waist with a belt that highlighted your figure effortlessly. Beneath it, your dress moved lightly with the breeze—brown, black, red, and white blending together in a pattern that suited you perfectly. Elegant but unpretentious, flowing just enough to make you seem both grounded and untouchable at the same time.

Your long, dark hair, streaked with shiny highlights, was loose, catching the light as you turned your head to glance at something in the distance. A few strands curled near your cheek, brushing against your collarbone. And then there were your eyes. Those deep brown eyes that seemed to see through everything and everyone. Your cheeky smile, the way your lips curled as if you knew a secret no one else could ever guess. I remember wondering, What is she thinking right now?

You were a moment suspended in time. I stood there for what felt like forever, studying your face, your body, the way you carried yourself. I could see you didn’t belong to anyone in that moment. You were untouchable, radiant, alive. And I couldn’t wait to make you mine.

You were the kind of woman people wrote songs about, the kind of woman who made men like me feel something I didn’t think I could feel anymore. Hope.

But that hope wasn’t about you. It was about me.

I told myself it was love. That what I felt for you was the kind of deep, soul-shaking connection people spend their entire lives searching for. But even then, in those first moments, I knew it wasn’t about you—it was about the way you made me feel. You made me feel alive, important, powerful. I imagined myself standing beside you, and it felt right. Like the way things should be. Like you belonged to me before you even knew it.

You were a mirror, reflecting back the version of myself I wanted to believe in. But mirrors can be dangerous, can’t they?

The more I saw myself in your light, the more I hated the shadows it revealed.

You weren’t afraid to hold up that mirror, were you? You started to see me like no one else ever had, a part of me hidden from the world. You could see right through me, as if I were water to you. And the movie you were showing didn’t stop—it kept going. Image after image, scene after scene, and you didn’t even notice how uncomfortable it made me feel.

It was too much. I could only say you were too much, but it wasn’t you—it was the reflection. Those images. That truth.

I told you to stop. But no. You wanted me to face that mirror, the one I’ve been running from my entire life.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I wanted to smash that mirror into pieces.

So I did what I had to do. I started pulling you down, dimming your light, making you slower to show that mirror until you finally stopped.

From the moment I laid eyes on you, I watched you. I studied you. Every smile, every gesture, every thought, every word, every memory or confession you made.

I was thirsty for you. Not because I loved you—because the more I saw, the more cracks, the more imperfections I noticed. But I needed to see them. I needed to know how to undo you. I needed to know what would hurt the most, what would make you doubt yourself, question your worth.

I needed to make you smaller. Quieter. Easier to control.

It wasn’t all at once. No, it was slow. Like carving away pieces of a statue until the shape becomes something unrecognizable. Something ugly.

And God, you fought back. For a while, you tried. You tried to hold onto yourself, to keep shining, to keep being the woman I first saw in front of that hotel. But over time, you changed. Your laughter grew quieter. Your light dimmed.

And I told myself—and told you—that it was your fault. That you changed. That you stopped trying. That you let yourself become this hollow, lifeless version of the woman I met that day in Paris.

A woman I now see as nothing.

There is nothing attractive left in you, nothing worth admiring, and I make sure you know it. I reflect this back at you happily.

You have become invisible. Not worthy to look at. Not worthy to study.

I started to feel ashamed for ever choosing you, and I don’t do shame. Shame is like fire—it burns me. It sears into my flesh and gets to my bones. I can’t stand it.

So I destroyed you.

And yet, the truth is you were never mine to begin with. Your light, your energy, your joy—they were never things I could take, own, or destroy. They were yours. They are yours.

I told myself I wanted to love you, to protect you, but that was a lie. I didn’t want to love you—I wanted to possess you. You were an extension of me, and I needed you to reflect back the version of myself I wanted to see. And then, you dared to change. You dared to rise from the dead, to reclaim what was always yours.

And I feel rage. I feel rage like I’ve never felt before. You exposed me. You dared to make me look at that mirror, and the reflection is unbearable. I feel so much rage, it consumes me.

I could kill you.

And yet, the truth is, I’m already killing myself.

I feel worn out. I feel like my soul is leaving my body.

Why is this feeling? Why am I feeling so weak, so defeated?

Perhaps because I made you a part of me. Wove you into my being, absorbed you until I couldn’t tell where you ended and I began. And now, as you slip away, it’s as if a limb is being cut off—slowly, painfully, with no anesthetic.

I thought I could destroy you without consequence. But now, I feel the phantom pain of your absence, the aching emptiness of something I once possessed unraveling from within me.

I don’t know if I can change. I don’t even know if I want to. Because to change would mean to face myself. To admit that the problem isn’t you—it’s me. It’s always been me.

And I don’t think I’m strong enough for that.

I don’t know how to stop and I don’t know where to begin. I only know how to exist. 

The entry ends abruptly, the last sentence jagged and unfinished. The page is violently crossed out, as if the writer couldn’t bear to leave these words intact—these words visible and alive. No name, no date, no explanation—just the echo of a voice that may never be heard again.

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