Once, my paranoid love

I could hear the ominous sound of Paul unbuckling his belt, a chilling reminder of the torment that awaited me. My heart raced as I lay there, helpless and bound, dreading the horrors that were about to unfold.

“You shouldn’t have done that, my love. I don’t have a choice but to punish you,” Paul said with a tone that sent shivers down my spine. His words were laced with a disturbing mix of authority and cruelty.

Fear gnawed at me, but beneath the terror, a flicker of defiance sparked within me. I refused to let him break my spirit completely. I knew I had to find a way to survive this nightmare, no matter how dire the circumstances.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“What are you up to, Paul?” I thought desperately, searching for any glimmer of reason or compassion in his eyes. But there was only darkness, a void of empathy that sent chills down my spine.

As he moved closer, his weight pressing down on me, I struggled to flip and wriggle free from his suffocating presence. My body ached from the restraints, but I fought against the paralysis of fear.

Whip! The sound of the lash cut through the air, followed by searing pain as it struck my trembling body. I cried out, the agony coursing through every fiber of my being.

“Mmm…,” I groaned in agony, my voice stifled by the handkerchief that still gagged me. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring the room’s dimly lit surroundings. The room seemed to spin as my mind struggled to cope with the excruciating pain and the relentless torment I was enduring.

Paul showed no mercy; his actions were fueled by a malevolent force that had taken hold of him. With each merciless strike of the whip, I felt my strength wane.

As the blows continued to rain down on me, I could barely see through the haze of pain and despair. My body throbbed with each merciless strike, and I cried out in agony, my sobs echoing through the room. But it was as if my pleas fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the brutality that had consumed Paul.

“Please accept my heartfelt apologies, my sweetheart,” he thought aloud, his words dripping with a disturbing mix of tenderness and sadistic desire. “I’d like to slit your skin, but I am unable to do so since I love you. I can’t be cruel to you, Elena.”

My heart sank as I realized the depths of his madness. He believed his actions were a perverted form of love, a twisted expression of affection. The contradiction was chilling, a reflection of the dark abyss that had consumed his soul.

I sobbed loudly, my cries desperate and raw, but it was as if Paul had become immune to my suffering. He continued the relentless assault, his anger and torment manifesting in the brutality of his blows.

“Tell me, Elena,” Paul said with a chilling calmness, his words like shards of ice in the air. The room seemed to spin as he continued to whip me mercilessly, each lash tearing through my flesh like a hot knife. The pain was excruciating, and I could feel my back becoming a canvas of cuts and welts, the sting of blood mixing with my tears.

Paul’s relentless brutality was a nightmare without end. He finally gasped, his breath ragged, and tossed his belt to the side, leaving me lying on the cold floor like a broken doll. My body trembled uncontrollably, and I could hardly summon the strength to move.

I lay there, battered and defeated, my spirit crushed by the sheer brutality of his actions. He put his hand on my bleeding back, and I jerked in agonizing pain as his touch seared through my wounds. My eyes, constantly dripping with tears, could barely focus on the room around me.

“Does it hurt?” Paul was the one who asked, his voice carrying a disturbing hint of curiosity. I couldn’t find the words to respond; my throat was raw and my body was wracked with sobs. The pain was beyond description-a torment that felt never-ending.

Suddenly, Paul removed the handkerchief from my mouth, and I gasped for air as relief washed over me. My wrist throbbed in excruciating pain, and I closed my eyes, trying to escape the nightmare even for a brief moment.

My tears flowed freely, and my body racked with sobs as I lay there, broken and battered. The room was a silent witness to the horrors that had unfolded within its walls, a haunting testament to the darkness that had consumed the man I had once loved.

Paul’s voice cut through the room with a strange mixture of tenderness and cruelty. “Elena, don’t cry. It will not hurt you anymore,” he said, his words a paradox given the brutality I had just endured. I couldn’t comprehend the twisted duality of his character-the love he professed and the torment he inflicted.

As he spoke, he retrieved an antiseptic and began to gently apply it to my wounds. The cool liquid stung against my open cuts, and I whimpered in anguish, unable to hold back the pain.

“Ahh!” I cried out; the sensation of the antiseptic on my raw skin was almost unbearable.

“Did you have fun with him?” Paul asked casually, as if we were discussing the weather. His question hung in the air, a stark reminder of the horrors I had endured. It was as if he was probing for my pain, relishing the anguish he had caused.

I hesitated, my mind racing, unsure of how to respond to his cruel inquiry. The memories of the past, the moments of terror and helplessness, flooded my thoughts.

Except for my tears, I didn’t answer Paul’s question. I knew that nothing I could say would make him believe me, and silence seemed like my only refuge at that moment. The room was heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and unspeakable horrors.

“Did you have fun with him or not?” Paul’s voice suddenly erupted, his anger and frustration palpable. I knew that denying it wouldn’t change his perception, so I replied with a nod and choked sobs, “I-I didn’t sleep with him.”

Paul’s face twisted in a mixture of emotions-doubt, rage, and perhaps a sliver of relief. It was a fleeting moment of vulnerability, a rare glimpse into the depths of his tortured mind.

“How about those marks?” Paul asked, his tone softer, almost desperate.

“Tho- Those weren’t bite marks, by the way. I had those marks on my body two days ago,” I lied, my voice trembling as I uttered the words. It was a desperate attempt to shield myself from further pain and regain a small semblance of control over my own narrative. Why should I be the one to tell you the truth? You didn’t believe me when I was telling you the truth. So, why are you asking for my explanation?

Paul regarded me with a mixture of confusion and skepticism. My attempt to deceive him hung in the air like a fragile veil of protection, but it was a precarious charade. The room felt stifling, filled with the weight of our twisted reality.

“Oh, is that so?” Paul responded, his tone strangely apologetic. “But I needed to punish you, so I did. I’m sorry for that.”

I wiped a teardrop from my cheek, determined to hold back my tears.

‘I swear I will not cry again,’ I thought, my inner resolve bolstered by the anger and frustration that had built up over time. ‘When you go to Nikita and lie to me, is that acceptable?’

Paul’s words continued to cut through the air, his possessiveness and jealousy evident in every syllable. “Your friendship with Eva should be broken up. She irritates me,” he demanded, his tone a mix of authority and insecurity. I remained silent, merely listening to his commands, not wanting to incite further anger.

But Paul saw that I was not saying anything, and he put his fingers on my wound, applying the medicine without warning. “Ahh!” I wailed in excruciating agony, my jaw clenching tightly as I struggled to endure the searing pain.

“I’m sorry, Elena,” Paul apologized, a strange mix of remorse and indifference in his voice. It was a fleeting moment of tenderness amidst the chaos of our fractured relationship.

After he had unfastened my hands and applied the antiseptic, he turned me around. I could feel his eyes on me, but I had reached my breaking point. “Now, please leave me alone,” I replied, my voice a whisper as I covered myself with a duvet, seeking solace in the cocoon of silence.