His Tenderness Murdered Me in the End
When a gentle, soft-spoken covert narcopath smothers with sweetness and kills you with kindness
Preface: They are freaks — twisted, wretched, deformed, pathetic and perverse iterations of who they once were. They did it, killed themselves and became this soulless superhero, at least in their own world of illusion and magical thinking. They did it to stop the shame and suffering, to end the endless torture, to survive the unsurvivable. They are the unloved, the unseen, the unholy. They had no voice to cry for help. And many of you, like myself, have an affinity for a lost cause. Because if we think about it too much, we can see with such clarity who they were when they were alive and who they could have been. We see flickers of life, remnants and tattered pieces of their humanity. And it breaks our heart every single time. Therein lies the danger. Nobody can resurrect the dead. And we are fools to try.
How many times do we hear those words?
Trust me.
Your gut screams “no” while you step closer, lean in, and tumble down the rabbit hole. Every red flag dismissed. Every voice in your head screaming stop, yet ignored and silenced. Every friend and family member begging, pleading, and imploring you to come to your senses.
