Ella

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HIS NAME had been Alaric.

Poor, innocent Alaric who had cried and begged for you to spare him. Twenty four year old Alaric who was three years younger than you, who had a whole life ahead of him to lead. His poor sister who had wept piteously when the newspapers spoke of his death; when they put in the details — a suicidal event; falling from a balcony; no, there were no security cameras, and multiple cuts on the deceased’s arms with a history of depressive episodes — and his poor father who had roamed around the streets, bottle in the hand. A string of feverish words had left his mouth in a daze; why, why, why my young son.

You had smiled at first, thinking of the way Alaric’s warmth had left your hands. His blood that had stained your skin, reassuring and sticky in a way that made your cheeks blush. You had caressed his skin as he had twitched, looking at you like you were a monster.

“How dare you.” You had spoke so softly, so sweetly. Two days ago you had caught him with another woman. “I gave you everything.”

“In hindsight, you stalked me,” he had moaned in pain, the clockwork of death ticking closer, “You ruined my life! I never should have agreed to go out with you!”

His hand had tried to slap you, but because of how weak he was — an endearing trait, you thought with amusement — it resembled an oscillating pendulum instead, moving back and forth uselessly. His tone, redolent of desperation and anger, made you laugh merrily; it was the most emotion he had showed you in a while.

“Your life has always been mine,” you had cooed, “you are mine.”

And you hadn’t even — murdered Alaric. You had merely guided him slowly; he had been the one to kill himself, had he not, staring at you with such acrimony and hostility that your heart had skipped a beat. He had rushed to the balcony feverishly, shaking his head, spewing dirty vulgarities at you. They were melodious words to your ears; soft, mellifluous. You had listened, mesmerised.

“Go on, jump,” you had murmured sweetly. You thought he wouldn’t have done so, because dear, pitiful Alaric had been so rebellious in your relationship with him, refusing to do your bidding. He had all this strange paroxysms of weeping, weird times where you would wish to help him but he would merely break down or howl. Ah, the mystery of human minds: Alaric never seemed to understand your efforts.

But he did. At twenty four, right before your eyes, Alaric had stared straight into your eyes, filled with roaring, beautiful anger; and his body had toppled right over the edge.

And you had watched it deadly, in veneration and reverence; that thump sound that followed had been godly.

**

Over the course of a few days that feeling had died, turning insipid and tasteless. You thought of Alaric, who you had goaded into dying. Essentially, you were a murderer. Essentially, you were evil.

You thought of Alaric’s bright laughter. The sallow complexion he had following the days you had become his boyfriend.your breaths coalescing.

Pity, pity, pity.

This empty feeling must be grief, you thought. You were never that good with emotions, naming them after poring over textbooks. Doctors had said you would never understand them, but Alaric had been you understand. Your feelings with him must have been love.

And now there were perforations in your soul. You had longed for the sublime; for the peaceful, tranquil feeling you had gotten when you had let love corrupt you. When you had allowed its brutal nature to swallow you whole.

What did people do when they grieved? You searched it up online. They went to psychiatric hospitals, they went to therapy. You thought those were fancy words for the doctor. You stumbled upon posts explaining how to deal with insurmountable grief and read countless aching stories of people who lost their loved ones in freak car accidents, who lost their husbands and wives and mothers and fathers from old age, from cancer, from brain aneurysms that struck one day have never gave them mercy.

Not one of them had murdered their loved one. Online forums and posts are not helping, you thought, as you shut your laptop down. You clicked your tongue, tapping your table listlessly.

A doctor. A doctor would be the cure. Yes, that would work.

**

HIS NAME was Joseph. You found him on the internet, under glowing reviews that spoke of his honeyed tongue, of how readily he had helped them; of how he was so charming, so gentle. You had studied his profile, deciding that he would do just fine. The expensive sessions were nothing to you; you weren’t particularly rich, but you didn’t have a desire to save money. Life was fickle, and you went about it as you pleased. You didn’t eat much, choosing to opt for a box of cigarettes and perhaps an apple or two. The juices would haemorrhage your tongue, and you would frown in displeasure.

“Expunge this sadness within me,” you had told Joseph during the first meeting with him. He was tall, well built, had brown hair swept into a clean, tidy hairstyle. His features were beautifully handsome, and you suspected they had helped with the numerous of illuminating reviews.

“You say you’re grieving,” Joseph said calmly, studying you with intelligent, thoughtful eyes. “When did the deceased die?”

You thought long and hard. His spirit had died a while ago, but his body had died about two weeks ago. Or was it three? Or four? You couldn’t remember. All you could feel were your feelings, raw and ambivalent, bubbling within you.

“Maybe four weeks ago?” You guessed.

“You don’t know?” He asked, curious.

“Not really,” you shrugged easily. “I saw online that grief does that to someone. Messes with you. Alaric was so precious,” you sighed.

The vestiges of his name lingered in your tongue. It felt bitter. Awful. You frowned again, and your breath rattled.

“Oh, Alaric,” Joseph spoke slowly, “he was my patient. Surely you don’t mean Alaric Rivers?”

“I do.”

“What a small world,” he had smiled pleasantly. “The man you spoke of visited for me for reasons related to depression.”

“Isn’t there a clause for confidentiality?” You asked, mystified, and also rather surprised at this coincidence.

“My patient is dead,” Joseph chuckled.

You thought he was a light hearted doctor. Acquaintances had rushed to wish you condolences, all viewing you cautiously like you were a time bomb about to go off. They told you that they were there for you and they were so sorry and they knew loss could be incredibly hard on an individual — but Joseph did none of those. It was like he had seen death in its very essence; everlasting, forever. It was like he had ripped mortality open and had seen its finite, fickle nature.

You decided he was a doctor that was good. You could rely on him. You did like how he laughed at it, just like how you had smiled so widely when Alaric had first jumped off the building. Who could blame you? Alaric had always been disobedient — and then he had went on to jump. Was there not a touch of mirth in the situation?

At least the doctor could understand!

“I thought it was a coincidence at first, when you said your name was Y/n,” Joseph said, “Alaric mentioned you. You must be the esteemed boyfriend.”

“He talked about me?” You asked, pleased.

“Of course.”

“What did he say?” You asked eagerly, the words tumbling out of your breath, “tell me, tell me!”

Joseph’s eyes softened, and he laughed. “That’s for another day.”

After the session, you booked another.

This man was useful. This man was one of the real doctors, not the ones who prescribed you pills and medicine that only made you throw up.

This man would help you eviscerate the sadness within you. Oh, right. The correct term would be grief.

**

In the next session, Joseph told you that Alaric said that you were an incredible boyfriend. That you clearly adored him.

You nodded. Joseph spoke the truth; you had loved him so dearly. You had gone so far so as to break his legs so Alaric didn’t need to go for that work event he didn’t want to go for, right?

Alaric had always been so ungrateful.

**

“You are one of the most intriguing patients I’ve ever had,” Joseph smiled. He did a lot of those, but they varied. Some were light, charming. The ones that made the nurses at the front desk giggle and fall over their feet. Most were unsettling, but you liked them those were genuine.

This was session six. The grief was leaving you. You thought of Alaric with fondness, and consoled yourself with the fact that he had loved you back. That was what Joseph had said. Doctors could not lie to their patients. Alaric had been swathed in depression and sadness; of course he would jump. Maybe you weren’t a murderer, after all. These sessions really were working; you were grateful to Joseph for everything he had done for you.

“Really?”

“You feel no guilt,” Joseph murmured, “you don’t even know yourself.”

Now, that wasn’t the fairest thing to say, you thought, offended. Where was this even coming from?

“An interesting specimen indeed,” Joseph continued softly, “you said you locked Alaric up, broke his legs, and threatened to kill yourself if he ever left you. You said he would cry and shake whenever you two slept together, and he was constantly ridden with nightmares. You say you gave him sleeping pills which you carefully crushed in his water so he wouldn’t know.”

“He had a plethora of problems he went through,” you said sadly. How upsetting for Alaric. You hoped that in his final comments, he got some peace, some closure.

“No guilt,” Joseph repeated, his eyes gleaming, “none whatsoever. A psychopath.”

“Calling him a psychopath is a little too much,” You said.

Joseph blinked.

Then he broke off into laughter — into peals of laughter that left his body shaking, leaving his body doubled over. He laughed so hard that tears pricked his eyes, and he continued doing so; uproarious, genuine, full of mirth. You wondered if Joseph had gone crazy.

And when he finally looked up at you, his eyes were murky. And so full of — what was that — ah, amusement. Joy. Affection.

And if you had squinted closer, you would have seen something blooming within. Something that, similarly, bloomed in your own eyes.

(Obsession.)

“My darling Y/n,” he laughed and laughed, “I wasn’t calling Alaric a psychopath. My dear, I was calling you one.”

**

How offensive!

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t want to hear it,” you said. “Take your words back, doctor.”

“Y/n,” he cajoled, “this is our sixth session; shall we leave the formalities behind? Call me Joseph.”

Something had switched in his tone, in his behaviour. You ruminated upon it, trying to think. What was it? It mirrored your own behaviour, but then again; you were bad with naming emotions. Whatever; it would come to you later. You would search it up.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Joseph.” You said, chagrined.

“Let me tell you about some things, Y/n,” Joseph said, “I know you killed Alaric.”

**

“He jumped off,” you said, “out of his own will.”

“You brought him to,” Joseph replied merrily, “you murdered him.”

“I didn’t,” you furrowed your eyebrows, “what are you even saying?”

“My darling,” Joseph begun, still smiling, “Alaric came to me about you. The minute I saw your name — and then it was confirmed when his name left your mouth — I knew you were his boyfriend. Well, his ex boyfriend. He did not say he loved you. He was terrified of you, Y/n, he hated you. I lied, Y/n, because I was so amazed at how unbothered you seemed by it all — by his death —"

“I was grieving —"

“You were not,” Joseph said, leaning forward, “here’s what I think. Shall I hazard a guess? You were happy when he died, because it felt like you had control over his last moments. And then you felt emptiness, because you no longer had a victim. You no longer had someone to fixate over. And you mistook that for grief.”

“I did not murder him,” you said at last, your eyes blazing, “I did not do any of those things.”

“I have files, transcripts,” Joseph smiled at you gently, “all of which will point to you as his abuser; and it would reopen the case. You could get arrested. You would get arrested, if I sent them in.”

You looked at him, eerily calm. You tilted your head. “And would you?”

Something within you disappeared, completeiy effaced. The grief, gone. The guilt, gone.

Nothing within you. An empty husk.

Joseph’s eyes glittered. “As it appears, I’ve taken an incredible interest in you. Fondness.”

“Wonderful.” You said dryly.

“We are one and the same,” Joseph said, “twin flames. I have my obsessive tendencies, you have yours. We latch onto something and tear it apart until it becomes ours. Until its ruins belong to us.”

“Is that so?” You looked at Joseph.

“I thought I had gotten over it a long time ago,” Joseph laughed, “but then you came…and something tells me you won’t break as easily. Not that I intend for you to break.”

“Not that you can break me.”

“I’m sure you, even in your unbothered state, would not wish to rot in prison.”

“Are you threatening me, Joseph?”

“I am giving you a choice,” Joseph said sweetly, “choose me; give me the reins of your body and spirit and heart — or I send the evidence in.”

It sounded like a vow, a marriage proposal. And maybe in a way, it was.

“That’s very little of a choice,” but your heart was starting to speed up — thumping wildly against your chest. The feeling of being alive again.

Joseph laughed. “It is.”

And then he had pulled you towards you, and —

**

At home:

Google; what does it mean when someone has an unhealthy or compulsive preoccupation with a single thought, feeling, or person? It completely fills your mind, often making it difficult to stop, think logically, or let go…

The screen loaded for a blip of a second. You thought of Joseph, who had started to fill every inch of your thoughts.

Obsession.

You had gotten the word for it.

You thought of the blackmail; the way his desire reached deep within the roots of your soul, the way it had corroded him. The way his hands had curled around your waist; around the expanse of your skin. It’s unrelenting, brutal, brusque nature.

You traced the marks left on your collarbone; harsh, painful bite marks. The bruises littered on your skin. The way he had claimed you, salacious and wanting, the way you had felt obsession entrench you again, this time all consuming, darker, wilder.

Malicious, malignant, malevolent, you thought. And so the two of you would waltz to death together, intertwined. The inevitable march towards fate, towards hell. Sins layering and building slowly upon each other.

Let’s destroy and tear each other apart.

Two can play the game.

**

hope everybody enjoyed!!! it’s been incredibly long since I attempted any yandere x yandere. hope this didn’t disappoint!