OBSESSION

"If you leave, I'll kill myself.

It's already decided.

If you leave, I'll throw myself out a tenth-story window .

In the letter, I'll write that it's your fault because you left

. And I hoped it would last forever.

I'll die without you.

I think you know...

You know... right?"

I waited in the waiting room, staring at the shiny floor. The nurse said the results of my tests would be coming soon. I was used to constant hospital visits. This was the second year I'd been regularly, at three-week intervals (sometimes more often), seeing various cardiologists and hearing the same, boring platitudes. The doctors call it hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. They don't know its causes. They tell me to avoid physical exertion and stress.

I've always had a weak heart and nerves. I'd faint often. To others, it looked like I was simply falling, but for me, the whole process took much longer. First, my hearing went numb, I started seeing much more clearly, and I had to breathe very deeply. At that moment, I knew it was going to happen and that there was nothing I could do about it. But every time, I wondered: what if I didn't survive this time? What if this time it was something more serious than just a faint? What if it was over? And every time I opened my eyes and realized it wasn't yet... I thought of him...

I always came home listening to the sound of my heels clicking on the floor and wondered if he, too—like me before his return—was listening for my footsteps near the door. But every time I entered the apartment, he was sitting in front of the TV, reading, talking on the phone... Maybe he was hiding it—I too, when I was sure it was him coming, would jump away from the door and pretend I wasn't wasting time, just going about my daily business.

He had no idea about many things. He didn't know, for example, that before we moved in together, I kept photos of him literally everywhere—in an envelope, in a box, in cabinets, in my wallet, under my pillow, and in my coat pocket. I only had the usual, unobtrusive photos on display. Not because I was still controlling my madness—because I wasn't living alone and didn't want to expose myself to hundreds of embarrassing questions. I know that if I had my own house, every wall would be wallpapered with his photos. And today, even though I had him every day, looking at his image captured in the photos still made my heart feel like it was pounding. How could I avoid stress when the mere sight of his face gave me heart palpitations?

I met him back in school, and although I hated him at first, it quickly turned out he was the one, my air, my world, my life, my God. Yes, he was my Christ. I know, that's a bold statement. But it was his coming that I awaited as if for salvation, praying to him, I could kneel at his feet, shout his name, or walk the streets and tell strangers about him. I gained his friendship, but the joy it brought only lasted a few months. I wanted more. I built my reality around him, pushing myself into the background. I'd had a few love stories, but none were as strong. It was with him that I grasped the concept of true love. I'm fucking myself. I only want his happiness, and I'm willing to do anything. You have me. Do you want it? Take it. Do whatever you want. Ask for whatever you want. I'll do anything. Anything.

And ever since I realized he was the man, nothing has been the same. I suffered and cried because I wasn't in his life the way he was in mine. "He who loves should share the fate of the one he loves." But if you deprive him of that chance, all that's left is longing and immense pain. He was always far away, always far away, or even further away. What do you do? I asked. Do you close your eyes? Take a deep breath? It hurts so terribly... So don't think. Wipe the image from your eyes, erase it, banish it from your memory. But in solitude, the masks fall... You can go mad. Or already? And it was supposed to get better. Sometimes it hit me like that... that quiver... I just wanted to see his sparkling eyes... him smiling with pure happiness... Just once he would touch my face lightly... Just once he would embrace me and hold me as tightly, as tenderly, as close as possible... I would be enveloped in his warmth... And then I could go mad or die.

I was going crazy. I closed my eyes and saw his house, which I'd visited only a handful of times during those four years, under the pretext of borrowing a notebook or explaining a topic to me (friendship is good for thirteen-year-olds—I wasn't made of stone and had normal needs, so every time I went there, I hoped he'd finally act, that he'd do something to me, anything, however he wanted). I felt him, breathed him in, watched him. I saw what he did, how he studied, how he read, how he went downstairs for a drink. I stood behind him. I followed him. Could he hear my breathing? My heartbeat? Could he feel me reaching out? No. Because a pane of bulletproof glass separated me from him.

When you dream, you wake up in hell. Until I moved in with him, I was sick every moment I wasn't with him, every moment I didn't see him. Even worse when I knew he was with someone else—friends, family, anyone. A man, a woman, family, a dog, a book—everything was a threat to me. Because everyone was always better than me, and I was convinced that every moment he spent with them distanced me from him by a distance greater than I could bridge with another meeting, conversation, contact. That I was hopeless in this fight. I was never his first priority, and I went ballistic whenever he did something I couldn't participate in.

I spent a fortune buying the books he read, the car magazines he browsed, I bought the erotic magazines I saw in his hands, and looking at the pictures, I wondered what I had to do to be like them. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at those whores. I screamed: Fuck, open those sparkling eyes of yours and see who wants you so much that they can no longer live except in dreams of one day being together.

I wondered if it was already transcending normality when I drove to his neighborhood and took walks by his house, school, church, and the shops where he might have shopped. Was it transcending normality when I cut myself until I bled to punish myself, humiliate myself, hurt myself, convinced I truly deserved it. I hadn't done this before. Not until he came into my life. And not right away, because initially, this love was joy. Was it transcending normality when I prayed to him in the evenings? I confided in him, and everyone said it was an abnormal love. I was furious. Who has the right to judge which love is normal and which is not, and where the line is drawn? Maybe this love is the perfect one, maybe only complete sacrifice is love, and all others are just poor substitutes.

I dreamed of always being by his side, for the rest of my life. I wanted to exist in his life, to be an integral part of it, to be thought of and remembered by him, to be with him in his thoughts, just as he was always in mine. I loved him more than I could bear; I would take anything he gave me. I was ready to grovel at his feet, lick the ground he walked on, follow him to hell. I would do anything he asked of me. I would give everything I had and gain everything I didn't. I loved him like a god, and I was convinced I owed him everything, and he owed me nothing.

I craved his attention and love or hate—one complete feeling directed entirely at me—so I would know where I stood. "If you want to fuck me, then fuck me, please," I said. "If you want to tie me up, cut me up, fuck me in the ass, rape me—do it.

But DO something.

Do something...

WITH ME."

I simply handed him my heart.

And yet, I had achieved my dreams. I had won him after years of hard work, and I felt it was only the beginning, that I had to keep working so as not to lose him.

"You are everything to me, you fill my entire life," I whispered in his ear, and I trembled that he would be filled with my love and leave because he no longer needed it.

Old love doesn't rust—it fades into hatred. God, how I hated everyone I loved before him. How I hated my first lover—for taking something that should have belonged only to him. So when memories of that man overwhelmed me, I sat in the middle of the room and tore his photos, letters, everything I had left of him as souvenirs, into tiny pieces, which I then burned with hatred in the bathtub. But it still wasn't enough. I had to punish myself. And I cut myself for being such a nasty little whore who went to bed because she thought she was in love and wanted it. And after those first nights with the man of my life, I cried because he wasn't the first.

Does such love begin with the first orgasm? Because mine began with the first slap in the face. Wanting to be all for him, I spread my legs for him, exposed my mouth and every orifice to him, and no matter how bad it sounded, I felt his love, I felt that he loved me, and the more it hurt, the more I felt it. And I wanted him to do it so hard that I cried with pain. It

always hurt. When he wasn't there, it hurt, and when he was there, it hurt. When he spoke and when he didn't. When he looked and when he didn't look. When he laughed and when he was silent. It always hurt. I secretly dreamed that he would finally crack my skull, rip out my thoughts, peel away my skin, scold my soul, pierce my heart, rape me, beat me, humiliate me, ridicule me, hurt me, because in the end, if I loved him, I would forgive him.

For me, what I received from him was never enough. It was like receiving only enough water to sustain me, not a single damn drop more. And I wanted to choke. I begged him not to leave, not to disappear, not to be silent. Because when he did, I died.

God, what was he doing to me? Someone said that every second of your life, you are what you think about. I was him. Didn't he see that? I knelt before him and begged him to let me be his servant, or at least his doormat. I gave him everything I had, and for him, it wasn't enough.

I often wondered what I would do to a woman who—knowing me—would dare touch him, kiss him.

I would kill him.

And what would I do to him? I don't know. I wouldn't be able to stop loving him.

A year after moving in with him, I faced this dilemma. I found out about the second one. He was sorry, truly sorry. Not that he had hurt me, but that everything might fall apart. He finally found it comfortable living with me. He packed a few things and went to sleep in a hotel. I called him.

"I love you with all my heart...

" "But what?" he asked, certain this betrayal would never be forgiven.

"But nothing. There are no buts. I'm waiting for you."

In that moment, he realized how much I loved him.

So much that he could get away with anything.

And I accepted everything. I accepted because I was afraid of losing him. I cuddled up to him and pretended it didn't bother me.

I wanted to be faithful to him for the rest of my life, like a dog, even in my dreams. Once, I woke up crying in the middle of the night because I dreamed a strange man was touching me. My heart was pounding, my hands were completely wet, I couldn't catch my breath, I felt like I was suffocating and about to faint or die. He turned on the light and asked if I should call an ambulance – I was pale, sweaty, and shaking – that's what a woman whose longing for love has reduced her to a hysterical neurotic looks like. His voice robbed me of all reason.

I wasn't working. My job was to make his life pleasant, and I was doing a fantastic job. He, on the other hand, was climbing the career ladder. Sometimes I got angry with him. I was in the hospital once and wanted him to come immediately. He was supposed to help a colleague with some errands and buy a few things for a business trip. He said he'd be there in an hour, and I was sick with despair and longing. And angry that this is what his hierarchy of values ​​looks like: Gosia, the thermos, me...

I once read a poem by William Blake and, changing the meaning slightly, repeated in my mind: "My dear sleeps, oh, let his sleep, which lasts, be eternal." The only end to this story can be his death, because I won't let any other woman have him. I once had a dream about it – I wrapped my hands around his neck, holding his head underwater, repeating it like a mantra: I don't want to be afraid anymore, I don't want to be afraid anymore, I don't want to be afraid anymore that you'll leave... I woke up with a heart attack and he had to call an ambulance.

Sometimes I stood naked in front of the mirror and wondered if I could live without him. No, probably not. I would have to learn to live again, because he had upended my hierarchy of values. These wounds don't seem to heal. This pain is too real. It's simply too much for time to erase. I only know how to love him, that's why I exist. I have a flat stomach, a smooth face. Pale, delicate lips that a whore can skillfully suck. Blood and semen.

In my case, heart surgery was supposed to be the last resort, but every day I felt like they were performing it on my open heart without anesthesia. I went to doctors and told them I was in pain, and they examined me: echocardiograms, EKGs, chest X-rays, searching for the cause. Finally, they referred me to a psychiatrist who prescribed antidepressants. Which I didn't take anyway, because for him I had to be myself, 100% myself, because that's who he lived with and who he wanted. My thoughts were tormenting me. Sometimes I thought it wasn't love anymore—it was a huge black hole swallowing me whole. How much more can I endure? Where does my endurance end?

I don't know if I could have a child with him, watch him love someone who was more his than I was. I've always wanted something that was HIS—not just his attention, his gaze, his affection, his thoughts directed at me, then his touch, his saliva on my thighs, his cum in my mouth, but also something more tangible, something I could watch, touch. But a child is too much. He would touch the child, too, and I wanted something I could hide in a box like a precious treasure and look at every now and then, dying of joy that it was mine.

I'd be afraid I'd hurt that little baby. You hear so much about it on TV. But all those women killed their children for sick reasons. Maybe I'd be the first to do it out of love. Not for a child, of course, but for a man she couldn't share in any way.

Night. He got up for a drink. Every time he got out of bed, I started shaking, terrified that he was leaving. It felt real to me, because what had I done to deserve him? I was nothing; he could leave whenever he wanted. Nothing had changed. I continued following him, seeing what he was doing, standing behind him, and he didn't hear my breathing or the beating of my heart. He still didn't feel me reaching out towards him. The bulletproof glass still separated me from him.

And what, an abnormal feeling? Or perhaps the truest one?

Love – a permanent tattoo. One that lasts forever. You can't get rid of it, remove it. Done once, it lasts a lifetime. You can cut it out, you say. So cut it out. Heart and mind. And try to move on.

I swear –

if he leaves, I'll kill myself,

that's already decided.

She ripped open the envelope with the results. The doctors call it hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, but she'll probably die of love – her heart will break.

She turns the page to the other side:

Prognosis:

"Not very favorable. There's a risk of sudden death related to cardiac arrest."

Well, love doesn't forgive weakness.

'but one more day

will

do what it can...'

...because that's only the beginning...