#darkcon

you know you can’t leave now because everyone already hates you; seriously? you dropped everyone and cut ties with people who have supported you for years because of michael kaiser? sure he’s a famous footballer, rich and handsome, but girl he beats you? your friends would never look you in the eye again, you’re estranged from your family, you have quite literally nothing. and the worst part is, you don’t want to leave kaiser. you really don’t - if you ever said you do it would be impulsive. maybe that’s why he says you’re being so dramatic so often, maybe he’s right after all. you love him with all of your heart and you have for years now. you are so unbelievably full of him, and it fucking kills you that he doesn’t act the same towards you. he’s sitting next to you on the couch now, watching the match he just played 3 days ago. he won, but he was angry. someone else scored a goal or something, you don’t know. you don’t know much about football, you tried to learn it; you swear you did! but you just never quite grasped it. but it’s fine, you’re always the perfect little outlet for kaiser’s rage. whether he screams at you that you’re a bitch and you deserve to die, don’t deserve him at all, claims you distracted him. whether he beats you senseless, twists your fingers, pulls your hair, turns you black and blue from the cruel beration of his fists. whether he just cries in your arms (a personal favourite) and actually shows what he feels deep down inside. it’s another reason you’ve never quite found the strength to leave him. you feel so motherly towards him, sure, he’s not calling you mommy, he very much likes to be in control in the relationship, but you can tell he’s just a broken child deep down. maybe it hits you extra hard and you want to save him even more because you’re exactly the same.

he’s so engrossed in the match, dawning his robe that costed an ungodly amount of money and those circle rimmed glasses that you (secretly) think he looks so cute in. you look pathetic next to him, bruises all up your legs, bandaids on some cuts and others showing, your skin looks sickly, big dark circles under your big eyes that kaiser (used to) love so much. you’re wearing barely anything too. just a pair of pajamas; frilly shorts and a sweater kaiser had bought you on your 2nd anniversary. you look worthless in comparison to his look, his vibe, his all. and that kills you.

kaiser long noticed your gaze, he knows you well enough to know exactly what you’re thinking of too; unfortunate for you. or fortunate: most girls would kill to have a boyfriend as attentive as this. he thinks you’re awfully cute sitting next to him on the fancy couch he insisted he had to buy for the living room, looking oh so very pathetic. he wants to punch you (endearingly), he swears he does. you look so small next to him, figuratively and literally. he does it on purpose because he gets off on it. sick fuck. he knows he is. you know it too deep down, but you hate admitting it to yourself. maybe because admitting the only person you have left in your life. kaiser randomly slapping you snaps you out of your thoughts.

anyone else would hate this, burst into tears, scream, slap him back, anything except what you do. you’re truly so docile. you learned to ignore the pain and put michael kaiser first; because michael kaiser is the first thing you’ve ever truly had and kept for such a long time. the sting on your cheek pales in comparison to everything about him. “what are you thinking about, hm?” he asks you. he’s smirking; he knows. so don’t lie to him.

kaiser watches your cheek grow red from his harsh slap, and laughs a bit. “i was just- you’re- you’re just… mean” it’s blurted out. no sense of coherency in anything you’re saying. unlike kaiser, he’s always composed somehow. well, sort of, sometimes he loses his cool so bad that even you’re unsure if it’s still him inside. but you know it is, he loves you so much he lets you see that side of him. “i’m only mean so you stay, you know? i can’t have you going anywhere” he’s caressing and pinching your cheek. it hurts a lot; he’s strong. but you can swallow your pride (the tiny bit you have left) that’s what you’ve done your whole life, after all. he knows he can just admit it at this point: no need to hide the manipulation anymore, it’s not like you’ll leave. and you nod. and he turns back to the tv. and that’s that.

that’s that until he sees something that he doesn’t like. he scowls in anger. and you’re in for it.

kaiser hates to be outshined anywhere, because he has something to prove unlike everyone else. prove that he’s not a completely useless piece of shit like everyone oh so loves to and loved to remind him the whole time he has graced this earth with his presence. so when he was hit with the brutal reminder of what happened in his last game; someone else scoring a hat trick on the other team. someone else outdoing him. someone else getting all of the attention and praise. all the articles calling him ‘washed’, asking if his legacy will end. it pissed him off. before he would take it out on himself, choke himself and treat himself like the subhuman he knows deep down inside he is. but now he has you; thank god for that.

and it irks him a little that you never react as he rags you by the hair to your bedroom, your body bruising along the way, hitting whatever objects and walls are on the way there. you never complain or beg him to stop - you did at first. the first few times you did. but it was fruitless, kaiser is a ball of compressed rage, constructed from every bad experience he’s ever had. so are you, but your low self esteem’s both manifest in different ways. you’re really no better.

and you cry as silently as you can as he beats the life out of you. if you cry too loud you’ll only make it worse (you don’t want to see what’s worse than this). sometimes he still tells you he does this for your own good, but even you don’t believe it anymore. but maybe you deserve this - you could just leave. he wouldn’t chase after you, would he? you’re not sure; but you could leave. and yet you don’t. and he knows you won’t. that’s why he treats you like this. he likes the power he has over you, because being with you is like being a god. being a god who is able to pass judgement over you however he wishes and whenever he wishes. because you’re his most devoted believer. he likes the way you look with bruises; likes the look enough he can push down the sickening feeling and bile that threatens to rise upwards and out of him onto the expensive marble floor of your bedroom. the feeling he gets knowing you don’t even fight back anymore. you have a really beautiful soul, he thinks as he beats the fucking shit out of you. how ironic. you’re truly beautiful. blood splattered everywhere. black and blue all over your legs. you look even more pathetic next to him now - or below him, he supposes.

do you know how awkward it is to lay in bed next to you after this? for him it’s awkward, he can’t imagine what it’s like for you. he’s reading something with the lamp on and his stupid prestigious looking robe and glasses on still again. all cleaned up, looking nice. you’re fine too; he guesses. or not really, you have blood on your nose, a huge black eye, and an ungodly amount of marks all over you. you’re always going to look pathetic next to him, it’s just your fate. you chose to date him. you don’t move: you’re lifeless even. but he feels your breathing shifting your side of the bed slightly, and that’s enough for him. you’re in so much pain that even laying down hurts, but you still nod when kaiser asks you anything. he always does this; tries a sick attempt at small talk afterwards. “my match is next week, you’re coming too. do you think i’ll win?” he tries to question as casually as he can. but he’s scared you can hear the break in his voice as he says it. you just nod. it hurts like hell - he had his hand wrapped around your neck and your head pressed against the hard floor. but you nod anyway to appease him. you don’t even know if he notices; for once you doubt he loves you. how could he? you want to believe he does, but you’re not sure anymore. the salty taste of your tears running into your mouth eases you into sleep. the taste of it mixing with your blood and dripping into your mouth. sleep is the only safe haven you get. at least you get to ignore the agonising pain you’re in and dream of a significantly nicer kaiser as your boyfriend.

when he’s sure you’re asleep, he wipes his eyes dry of tears and kisses your head. he’s sorry. he does love you. he doesn’t know why he’s this mean. he’s sorry. he noticed your crying too. he loves your face when you look like that usually; but now he doesn’t. well, he does a bit, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t. but he wants to make you happy too; but he doesn’t know how. being nice is never something that fit him. he always justified it with ‘opposites attract’ (he knows this is entirely different). he’s leaning over your frail, sleeping form. tears cascading down his face onto you. cleaning off the blood from that nosebleed he gave you. your nose gave a sickening crack when he hit you there - god it even made him cringe.

he’s sorry. he caresses you as you sleep like you’re the most precious thing in the world. he’s a real piece of work. a fucking subhuman. and he’s sorry. he doesn’t know why he’s like this. you gave him all of you in the best way possible so he threw his whole self at you too in the worst way possible.

you don’t deserve this, so he’ll change. it’s just a matter of when and how. he hasn’t quite worked out the kinks yet, but when he does he’ll change and give you the world. he’s so gentle as he touches you whilst you sleep. his tattooed hand stroking your hair so sweetly. he does his last selfish act of the night and grabs you to pull you against him so he can feel your warmth radiating to lull him to sleep. and you feel it; it’s not selfish, you’re so happy. you lean into each other instinctively. it’s nice when he’s so loving, it maybe makes his onslaught of violence against you all worth it. you both like feeling loved, but only one of you is preventing that.

“sorry, i love you, i’ll change meine prinzessin. ich versprochen” it’s a whispered promise into your aching soul. but you believe him, you always believe him. you hope he’ll fix you. and he already knows you’re fixing him. you stir again from your sleep and put your body through even more pain to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “i know”