Gunpoint Romance

He isn't nice.

He's charming and funny and interesting. But he isn't nice. He's beautiful. A sight that can take your breath away. Tall and lean with features that could have been chiselled from stone. He knows he's beautiful too. He knows that when he walks into a room the power of choice up and leaves everyone and they simply have to stare.

He's so perfect it's alarming. He takes my breath away every day without fail. He's so tender and sweet sometimes that I think I could fall in love with him. The way he'll hold my hand in public and stare down anyone that dares to think we aren't right – it makes me melt.

Still, he isn't nice.

And I don't love him.

He holds onto me too tight. I shouldn't be good enough for him. He's perfect and beautiful while I'm timid and awkward. And yet he holds onto me like I'm a lifeline. He doesn't love me. He needs me. He traps me.

I squeeze my eyes closed, nice and tight, and a tear slips through the cracks.

I wish that someone would ask me why I'm with him. Inside I'm dying to tell. I'm screaming that I don't have a choice but no one wants to hear it. How silly can I be? He's perfect. I should feel privileged that he's so head over heels for me.

They don't understand that he isn't nice.

The first time I tried to leave was hell. People were hurt and I was hurt and everyone hurt. My friends, his friends, my family, his family, our family. They all paid the price. Little things that couldn't be anyone's fault but caused so much pain. I realized then that by being with him I spared them. When he had me he didn't need to hurt anyone else. He didn't need to plant little insecurities in their heads and tear them apart from the inside out.

He isn't violent.

He's patient. Like the strong steady flow of a river slowly wearing away at the mountains and canyons. He has time so he takes it. He hates me for not loving him and he makes me pay every day little by little.

I roll over and stare at his face and even in sleep I can't see anything good about him.

Because he isn't nice.

He's taken away my freedom and my voice and my confidence. But he hasn't taken away my choice.

My fingers squeeze tight around the warm metal in my hand and I draw in a breath.

He's too proud to let me leave him and I know he'll never let me go of his own accord.

But he hasn't taken away my choice.

I pull the trigger.

A lifetime in their prison is infinitely better than a lifetime in his.

Because he isn't nice.