UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

INTRO III: MOMENTS IN BETWEEN

INTRO III: MOMENTS IN BETWEEN

THE DEVIL

We got married. Option one. Produce me an heir. She chose.

Three months. Lovebomb. Hot and cold. I trained her well. I broke her easily (the first step of the procedure)—not because she was weak, but because she chose to be, adapting to my rhythm with remarkable speed.

Compartmentalization—her strength. Strong and smart enough to withstand me (the first one who did). Unlike the others, she didn't chase or try to change me. She changed for me.

Defiance. She exercised it often. Defiance was something I hated. And things I hate entertain me. In return, I rewarded her—not with pregnancy, but with Jean—her first love, the one who took her virginity. I hired him as her bodyguard the moment she became pregnant—a controlled variable, designed to test the limits of her morals, and to give me leverage against what I truly hate: Serene.

Serene believed I did all this to get revenge on my half-brother, Jean. She was the one who urged me to do it, so I let her think that way. It comforted her. She hated Jean. That helped.

You know, Serene... I used to think Jean was my half-brother. You made sure of that. You always whispered it in my head ever since I was still too young. That Dad hated me because of him. That Jean was a good kid, and I was a monster. And I chose to believe you. I really did, even though you bore me.

But here's the thing: Jean isn't my half-brother. And you knew that.

And you? You're not my mother. Not really. Just a stand-in. A prop. A woman who wore the title like a costume.

You never told me. You let me call you Mom.

Too late for me to know the truth.

So let me be honest with you, Serene: I never cared about Jean. Or Dad. Or you. You were all background noise.

But I found out that you lied to me. And that made you... interesting.

So I returned the favor. I gave you a show. I made you watch. I made you squirm. I made you feel, once again, what you hate most—useless. I gave you something to hold onto—Heather. A mirror. A reminder. She's everything you were. Innocent. Devoted wife. Used by a monster.

The difference? Heather got pregnant.

You never did.

Six months later, I told her that. In front of Mona Lisa, Heather, and Jean. I didn't say the exact words, but that was the essence.

It shouldn't have happened. But boredom pushed me to let it happen. First, Heather had a strong sense of morality. Lastly, she didn't commit infidelity.

And for that, she earned my respect. In return, I will file for divorce, I told her. To shatter her (the second step of the procedure). And test her resilience.

Heather did shatter. She miscarried the child. I didn't go to the funeral. Heather stayed with her aunt.

One month later. Tonight. I wait for her to come home along with my lawyer. To finalize the draft of divorce papers.

She arrives with her own lawyer. Always confident. Always assertive. Echoing. Synchronizing with every clack of her heels hitting the floor.

Click-clack.

Click-clack.

Click-clack.

Like a metronome, forcing me, not only physiologically, but psychologically, to focus on her. To the way she walks. To every motion of her body. To the sound of every breath. To her gaze.

Even after my cruelty. Fiery in her eyes never fades.

Her femininity. Therapeutic. Extreme.

Next. After a second. Silence. She joins the table and sits.

The boldness of her defiance, refusing the draft—the divorce itself. She declares to save the marriage. Her willingness to forgive me despite the destruction I've caused. Even explicitly announces that she accepts the evilness I possess. So grounded. And again, assertive.

Very predictable. But admirable.

Then she tries to fight further, to find any loopholes—she'll put me in guardianship. Also predictable, yet I'm entertained. So I fight back, in silence, showing the photos of her and Jean, evidence of her infidelity.

Far from the truth, of course, but it would make her ineligible to be my guardian. The judge would doubt her, and me as well—I'm an evil husband.

The divorce—inevitable; she loses and cries, the most predictable of all.

And then... silence.

The moment she kneels and tucks herself under the table, kissing my shoe—almost—before our lawyers.

I pause. First time... it happens.

Not a disorientation but rather too focused on what she's doing, on what she's saying, "I will agree to file for divorce. Just don't make me move out of this house, please... " Her sobs deepen as she plants her face on my knee. "Give me a year or two, so I can have an excuse to tell my parents that we tried to work on our marriage."

She looks at me. Eyeliner smudged—evidence of tears, streaking faintly down her skin like ink diluted in water. "Pretending isn't that hard, is it? I need you, Hugo, please."

I need you, Hugo, please.

The words echo only once. And Heather, kneeling under the table, beseeching—that image, that auditory does not compute. It disorients me for a second. Every person—psychopath or not—wears a mask. Ego demands it. Even in intimate settings. Neurotypicals, to avoid shame. Psychopaths, to blend in.

Heather kneels, cries, and even begs me in front of the lawyers. She doesn't worry about shame. A neurotypical person wouldn't act that way unless it's a do-or-die situation.

Our divorce won't kill her. I might. I even threatened her once. She mentioned her reasons, sure. Yet she could've asked the lawyers to leave first, then presented her case to me—she didn't take that route.

She has seen me as a monster, not a human, right from the start. She chose to let me break and shatter her. Responsibilities to her parents. Approval from her mom. That's what pushed her. And then, she lost a child. Our child. I did it. The most diabolical thing I did. The chance to escape me. Now is the time. But she filed it away.

All of it. Out of character for a neurotypical. The input—inconsistent. I could accept what she's doing now if she were dumb—just like the other women who formed trauma bonds with me.

But she... Heather... she's smarter than this. Maybe to lie. Maybe to manipulate—no. I trained her. She can't do that to me.

So what the f*ck is this?

Pretending isn't that hard, is it?

I blink. Heather hugs my leg. Tight. Still crying. Still begging. A collapse, the faint trace of her perfume—woody—makes it spread across the room. Reverberating.

She's begging not for love, not to win—but to keep pretending.

Fascinating. And makes sense. She's smarter than I thought.

Smile fails to escape me. I let it fail. Heather is crying. Smiling is inappropriate.

"All right," I say, pushing back my seat. I assist Heather to stand.

Rubbing eyes, she looks like a child. Head bowed, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

"Okay." I speak, voice calm and slow. "We'll pretend. That's fine with me."

She sobbed again. This time, harder, louder. "Thank you, Hugo. Thank you..."

Then her entire body trembles, her breathing shallow. She hyperventilates after.

Her lawyer panics, assists her to sit. My lawyer opens a bottle of water, handing it over to Heather.

Heather's lips, now grey, yet she tries her best to drink.

I blink again. Pause—again; one hand goes to my waist.

Damn it!

I'm surprised. Her emotions—raw. That's not exaggeration. Rather, she's relieved that I agree we can keep pretending.

I've never encountered a woman like her before. Women I've had relationships with cry a lot, sure. But all of them do it for one purpose: to beg for my affection, for my approval.

Heather—truly an anomaly. One revelation leads to another; she keeps shifting, defying the framework I built. The result: she doesn't bore me.

She's one of a kind. Worth keeping.

The only question: how?

To keep someone like Heather, a neurotypical, means to cherish, to hold dear, and not lose her out of selfishness. Neurotypicals can do this; they feel deep emotions that connect them to that person. It's called a bond, driven by empathy.

Empathy. The ability to feel, to connect. But I'm indifferent. I am a psychopath, can't empathise, can't feel emotions with others, can't connect.

I can—cognitively, only when it's work-related, for the benefit of my company, not on a personal level. It's unnecessary unless I gain something in the long run.

I do things only for my benefit or if I gain something valuable.

And Heather... she's... She holds value.

Try to imagine yourself in the situation of the person you have treated badly. What would you feel? That was the therapist's prompt. Standard CBT framing. To exercise cognitive empathy. I've never tried, not even once. I only gave the therapist the expected response.

Try, Hugo. Or you'll lose her.

I barely try—minimal effort. Harder than usual.

I retrieve the moment of our initial encounter. Then the Louvre. Mona Lisa. Her tears. My declaration of divorce.

I exploited Heather. I broke and shattered her. And Heather was not causally linked to Serene's actions.

If the roles were reversed and I were subjected to the same treatment, I would retaliate. Lethally. But Heather... she responds with emotional collapse. She pleads. Even begs me to save the marriage.

She's willing to accept me.

She remains loyal to the marriage—to me.

F*ck...

Palm moves across my face, I exhale, applying pressure to the back of my neck. My other hand stabilizes at the waist.

And then... a mild urge to hydrate. But f*ck... No physiological necessity. My chest tightens, but I can breathe properly. Throat contracts, yet no impairment in swallowing,

Is this remorse? No. I understand the construct. I do not possess the experiential framework. I don't even feel anything for what I did to her.

Yet, I sense something. I try to understand it, to feel it—like neurotypical people would. But ends up nothing. Void and empty.

Compare to the notification I received regarding my little sister's death. The sensation is similar, not identical.

The piercing in my chest. New. Sharp yet no pain. Too raw. Palpable—almost.

Its intensity. I understand. Faint. But sufficient to inhibit voluntary movement: limbs don't want to move, even if I can. To sit down, but I don't. Heather's face. Crying. Imprinted in my mind like a rotten wound. That even if I look away. Her face. Still there. It's all tangled.

And then... an emergent impulse: physical contact. Hug her. Remove her distress. Her grief. Her pain.

What are these emotions?

If it's not remorse, then what is it?

Empathy?

If so, then why does the impulse to manipulate remain? Why do I still seek to extract her purity? To protect and keep someone so pure means competing against those who are worse than me.

Out there. They are lurking, waiting.

And I don't want to share.

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To possess is to predict departure. To understand departure is to remember I am capable of wanting. And wanting, Heather—wanting you—disrupts every algorithm I've ever trusted.

-Hugo

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