Alone with You

by Aly Martinez

The thing with communicating with a narcissist is that, no matter what you’re saying, you’re always stupid. They, of course, are smarter. Truly, an expert in all fields from child rearing to classifying the color of the sky. It was wild. Even when they were wrong, they were still right, and the mental gymnastics and abuse used to make sure you understood that they were superior to you in every facet was utterly impressive—and totally fucked up.

Dr. Shithead lifted Gwen off her feet and spun her in a circle, nearly taking my knees out with her dangling legs. Last I’d checked, we were not in a countryside field in Austria with Julie Andrews singing in the background. Was spinning seriously necessary? I would not punch my brother. I would not punch my brother.

“He told me he was going to make me come so hard I would question whether I’d ever had an orgasm without him.” “Thank you, Jesus, he’s a dirty talker!” Lucille toppled over, the back of her hand over her forehead, pretending to pass out. “Shut up,” Angela whispered in awe. Dylan leaned forward, swirling her glass of wine. “Okay, but did he?” “You have no idea,” I replied, a massive grin stretching my lips.