I remember how his eyes would narrow when I trembled, how a smirk would creep across his face when he saw me shrink back, my body shaking because I knew what was coming. It wasn’t just the threat of pain that broke me; it was knowing that my fear was entertainment for him. It thrilled him. I wasn’t a child to him; I was prey.
It got worse over time because my fear disgusted him. He would mock it if I froze, if I stammered, if I sweated from terror. “Why are you looking down? Why aren’t you saying anything?” he would sneer, his voice a blade slicing through my silence. If I stayed frozen, too afraid to respond, it only enraged him more. He would make faces and mock me.
Why? Because I was silent. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do when he watched my body shut down and totally collapse. He would love it. At the same time, it disgusted him. I could see it in his eyes. He hated that I was so weak, hated that I was afraid of him. But instead of softening, it made him want to punish me more, as if beating me would erase the shame he felt at seeing me break under him.
And so it became a cycle. I was terrified, and he hated that. My terror gave him power. Do you see how convoluted all of this is? He hated that too, and so he punished me—not just for the fear, but for making him feel anything about it at all. That’s crazy. That is the sickness of the psychopathic, evil, demonic narcissist. They’re trapped in a twisted loop.
They love your fear because it makes them feel powerful, but they hate you for it too, because your fear reminds them that they needed to break you to feel powerful at all. And so they destroy you again and again, thinking maybe the next time they won’t feel that shame. Maybe the next time, they will feel pure, untouchable, possibly dominant. But they never do.
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