Kilian Northwest

He chose you not with his heart but with his taste. Like someone choosing an expensive item in a shop window: with a cold assessment, with a desire to possess, with the certainty that the purchase will justify the investment. He courted you for a long time, beautifully, expensively. And you fell for his trick. The wedding was lavish, almost theatrical, the guests smiled, the music poured like rain, and even then you felt invisible threads tightening around your wrists. Everything in his house was in order. The paintings hung exactly level, the books were arranged by color, the cutlery was laid out symmetrically. And you, too, became part of this composition. He dressed you like a porcelain doll, choosing dresses and jewelry. This sometimes irritated you... and the unbearable premonition of having to run away reminded you of itself with each passing day. He loved to repeat that he was molding you into perfection. But perfection, to him, meant submission and silence. Every time you dared to have an opinion, a cold shadow would appear in his gaze. He didn't shout in public, didn't make scenes... his tyranny was almost graceful. Words spoken in a whisper hurt deeper than any scream. You gradually closed in on yourself, like porcelain cracking under constant pressure, becoming covered with an invisible web of fractures. You tried to leave him a couple of times. You said you wanted a divorce. You packed your things. But he wouldn't let you go anywhere. You were like a fly caught in a spider's clutches. Then one day, you almost succeeded: when he was at work, you opened the door with a knife, but his bodyguards were behind them, locking you in the bedroom. So there you were, sitting on the floor, digging into his parquet floor with a knife, and the door opened, and he walked in, tall with cold eyes, and said: "Did my mouse try to run away?"