Sofie
Murderous thoughts sweep through me faster than a fucking tornado.
I consider myself a peaceful person, but I swear that prick Greg is bringing out my dark alter ego. All because he won’t leave me alone.
Every time my thoughts move back to his creepy encounter in my café, I start to shake. Unfortunately, I can’t stop thinking about it.
The man seems unable to understand the simple message I’m trying to get across to him: leave me the fuck alone. How dense could he be not to get that simple instruction?
What’s worse is it was his fault we split up, to begin with. He cheated on me but now he has the balls to be pissed off because I don’t want to see him again. As if it’s my entire fucking fault.
Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if that is how Greg views the situation. That dick never sees anything as his fault. In all the while we were together, it was me, me, me.
Like a caged animal, I pace our little living room. Up and down and up again. My hands are looking for something to fucking do, short of strangling the prick. If I were a smoker I’d light up one cigarette after another.
Alas, I don’t smoke.
I won’t give Greg the satisfaction of taking up the bad habit either. But somehow, I’ve just got to get out of this fucking victim mode.
Up and down and up again, I keep pacing. If only I lived in a bigger house. This room is rather small for pacing.
But how the fuck do I get on the front foot?
Think. Think. Think.
I stop in the middle of the room and sigh.
How do you beat a narcissist at their game? I’ve decided Greg falls under the category of narcissist.
One of the fucking symptoms of a narcissist is the inability to take responsibility for anything going wrong in their lives.
Greg hasn’t taken any fucking responsibility for the breakdown of our fucking relationship. I’ve read a bit about narcissists. They’re in love with this grandiose image of themselves, an image which is not an accurate reflection of them. It is this self-love that hides their insecurity.
Greg fits the fucking description to a t.
I believe narcissists also follows a pattern of self-centered and arrogant thinking and no empathy.
He’s not thinking about anyone other than himself, and that’s how it’s been the entire fucking relationship.
Even when he fucked me it was about him, all him. Sometimes he wouldn’t even care whether I had a fucking orgasm or not. As long as he got to fucking unload, it was all good.
Narcissist.
There are plenty of other words I can think of to describe to Greg ranging from manipulative, to cocky, arrogant, selfish and fucking demanding.
And fuck was he demanding.
Of course he hasn’t changed. He’s still fucking demanding. The man’s demanding attention from me now even though we’ve broken up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My hands ruffle through my own hair. The man’s messing with me and we’re not even together any more.
Stop. It needs to fucking stop.
I go to the kitchen to make myself a double strength espresso. I need this. A strong hit of caffeine might help me work out a fucking solution to my problem. My big fat problem called Greg.
The silver machine hisses and spits as it comes to life. Briefly, I’m taken to a time and place where there are dragons and Greg is eaten by one.
I sigh. Why can’t real fucking life be a simple as daydreaming?
When the machine has warmed up, I press the button to make an espresso. I watch the thick black liquid come out through the spout and picture Greg being pushed through some tiny device so he comes out the other end like a thin string of himself.
This makes me chuckle.
Imagine inventing such a machine. Take your fucking useless ex-boyfriend and push him in through a giant hole, feet first. Then press a giant red button and watch him come out thin and stretched like a shoelace, unable to cause you, or anyone else for that matter, any further trouble.
The machine could be marketed as the ex-boyfriend problem solver.
Now I laugh out loud. That would be a huge hit.
Good.
I’ve started in a good mood, even though I had to wait for my coffee. Then my day was ruined by Greg. I needed to get it back. I hate being rattled, anxious and stressed. Unless of course, I’m stressed about exams and then stress is part of what’s normal.
I mean if you’re not stressed about your fucking exams, you should check for a pulse. Everyone I know stresses before exams, it’s part and parcel of being a student.
Now what?
The coffee is made. I take a sip. I still can’t sit still. I’m driven to keep moving by some invisible force, no doubt called Greg.
There’s that fucking prick in my life again. Will I never be rid of him?
With nothing better to do than contemplate and dwell on Greg, I decide to resort to the only source that I know will be able to be of real help to me.
I search google.
Intervention order. I’ve heard other students use the phrase and I have some vague idea it relates to violence and protection.
Maybe I need one of these intervention orders to protect me from Greg. I’m desperate to try anything just to remove this asshole in my life.
It doesn’t take me long to work out that an intervention order is there to help if you’re being harassed and or are in fear.
Is Greg harassing me, I wonder.
My inner voice near scream at me, are you fucking kidding? Showing up uninvited at different places and sending me into a tiny piece of jelly would probably be considered harassment.
What was the definition of harassment again? This has something to do I think about ‘aggressive pressure or intimidation.’
I gnaw by bottom lip. I was intimidated by him and I think he uses aggressive pressure. But how do I go about getting one of these fucking intervention orders?
The doorbell stops my thoughts.
I go to open the door when a thought suddenly strikes me. Could it be him? Would he be so fucking stupid and show up here again? He wouldn’t know Chloe is not here. As far as he’s concerned he might get another serving off Chloe.
Suddenly, my steps slow right down.
The bell rings again.
My heart starts to beat faster. I feel the palms of my hands get all sweaty again. No. No. No. Please don’t let me have to confront him again.
Whoever is at the door is getting impatient. They’re now knocking.
My mouth’s dry and feels as if I’ve walked through the dessert for the last forty-two days without water.
Fuck. I swallow.
Come on, Chloe. You can fucking do this. If he’s standing out the front, just slam the door straight back in his face. All right. Good plan.
Slowly, I open it and hold my breath.
When I see his face, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“You ok?” Eli asks and comes in without waiting to be invited. He sounds worried.
I nod.
His arms wrap around me and I melt into him.
“What’s going on? What took you so long to open the door? I was getting worried.”
With all those questions firing out of him I laugh. Then I shrug.
“I thought you might be Greg,” I admit quietly.
Instantly Eli looks alarmed.
“He hasn’t been back again?”
I shake my head.
“But the thing at the café is still rattling me.”
He pulls me close to him again.
Eli definitely cares for me. I feel it in the warm way he holds me. I rub my cheek up and down on his shirt. Even through the material I can hear his heartbeat.
“I’ve been thinking about taking out an intervention order,” I start to tell him and move out of his embrace.
“Great idea,” he agrees.
I nod.
“I just don’t know how to start or where to go.” I admit and see him smile.
I think he could help me by at least pointing me to the right direction.
“That’s easy, baby cakes.” He’s pulling out his mobile already. “I’ll call our lawyer and he can sort it for you.”
When he’s finished the call, I smile. I’m not quite sure what to say. Life’s so surreal these days.
“You know Sofie,” Eli takes me by the shoulders. “We’ll go to all kind of lengths for you.”
I giggle at his words.
“I’ve seen all of you go to all kinds of lengths for me, especially when you’re rock-hard.” I say and feel my cheeks burn.
Eli gets my drift and laughs. He leans forward, and his lips find mine. The minute our mouths meet, my problems melt away, just like that.