There was something about her that was off; like a character from a Dickens novel possessed of a psychology that didn’t quite function as it should. Cruel and biting in ways portrayed as unintentional, she was the master of passive aggressive manipulation. Every wrong transgressed against her remembered, every slight embraced as only a willing victim can. Attention seeking and dramatic she lived for tragedy, wore it as comfortably and openly as one might a favourite warm coat on a cold winter’s day. The manipulations needed to control those around her carefully disguised as altruism. The intentions of others she did not consider, outcome reigned supreme and true forgiveness was not in her nature; yesterday would always be relevant. She built walls with no windows and despite her family she was very much alone, loneliness of her own making, loneliness that fed her need for pain and provided much sought after ammunition in the battle she played out as love and marriage … ammunition used to incite his wrath and entice him to wound thereby giving her the emotional fix she so desperately needed.
She would be easy to label, masochist.
Most of us, thankfully, don’t look like this.
Intriguing…
fine prose
Smiling; thank you.