Is that why tears are salty, she wonders? Why do we cry? What’s the point? After being called Crybaby Crystal about a dozen times, she vowed to give up crying. To toughen up. To keep the bullies from bullying her.
It worked, but at what cost? My tender angel died for the first time in that decision. She’s never been the same since, viewing tears as weakness and frailty. She cried me an ocean during therapy. The therapy to get her over the Brits. That’s right. Two of them.
One of them has been dead nearly a decade already, but still he had his claws in her. He raped her. Three times. She flew across the pond to be driven three hours to his home. Young, no idea how to escape if it went wrong. It was her birthday. Her present? Lots of rape. And being told that his mother didn’t want to witness them kissing. She figured that was because his mother had no lover of her own, but she was wrong; it was because he’d brought home a new floozy the weekend before. A direct contrast and compare, two weekends in a row. He took them both to his role-playing group, treating her with open disdain in front of them. The pity in their eyes was palpable. She did not cry. Apparently this equated to being stupid to all of them. They pitied her more.
She did not cry because she was in shock the whole time. He’d already raped her once by the time Friday night rolled around. Twice, actually. She was returning the following Monday. That was the last time he’d see her, let alone rape her. She remembers standing in the Manchester airport, saying her goodbyes. She didn’t want to leave because she knew, deep in her heart, this was the last time she would ever see his lying, cheating face. In person, anyway.
He died about twelve years later, broken-hearted because he realized she’d done her best and he spat on it for no reason other than he could. He tried to come back, to get her back. He wanted her to look his way again. He wanted her to care about him again. He wanted to rape her again. He was sleeping with women on the side the entire time he was wooing her from across the ocean and he was still doing it when he reappeared within her sphere. Just like the second Brit, I should add. Sleeping with his friend’s wife. Candy Cane.
And now for something completely different, Crystal announces out of the blue. No more narcissists in our diary, she reminds me yet again.
Yes, dear. I’d forgotten. Please forgive me.
May I present to you our second masterpiece:
This MP3 provides healing on a cellular level. It will cause you to either lose weight or gain weight (whichever one you desire, actually.) However, take care not to overdo it. You can and will torch your internal organs with overuse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Maybe your precious doctors will save you in the nick of time. Drink more water, eat more vegetables. (Sautéed, preferably.)
If we cannot speak of narcissists, dear daughter, we will have to return to The Holy Bible. Are you sure you wish to do that?
Oh, you mean it’s your turn, God? That’s fine. My life is in your hands. Literally. I cannot pass muster as a living creature by myself, nor do I wish to. I promised you a book in return for True Love(TM). I need my Westley.