Diary of an Oxygen Thief (The Oxygen Thief Diaries, #1)

by Anonymous

It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either, because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I killed a few of them.

All the pretense and rules dissolved away. There was just the two of us and the pain. All those intimate moments, every little sigh, those gentle touches, the lovemaking, the confidences, the orgasms, the attempted orgasms—all mere fuel. The deeper in they were, the more beautiful they looked when the moment came.

They say the sea is actually black and that it merely reflects the blue sky above. So it was with me. I allowed you to admire yourself in my eyes. I provided a service. I listened and listened and listened. You stored yourself in me.

The more they confided and invested in you, the deeper the shock and the more satisfying the moment at the end.

All I know is, I felt better when I saw someone else in pain. But of course they would often hide how much I had hurt them.

When I spoke, she turned her head toward me and seemed to abandon herself to the meaning of my words.

Why would anyone set out to break the heart of someone he loved? Why would anyone intentionally cause that kind of pain?

Hurt people hurt people more skillfully. An expert heartbreaker knows the effect of each incision. The blade slips in barely noticed, the pain and the apology delivered at the same time.

I began to hate you for not having the courage to tell me what you really thought of me.

You’ll question your own judgment. Maybe you’ll never really trust yourself again. I hope so. Because if I don’t want you, and believe me I don’t, then I don’t want you being happy with someone else when there’s any doubt that I might get another girl.”

Romance has killed more people than cancer. Okay, maybe not killed, but dulled more lives. Removed more hope, sold more medication, caused more tears.

Especially girls. A girl had caused it, so a girl would have to pay. I wanted to hurt. It was a whole new world to me. I’d never known it was possible to be hurt so much.

What you do comes back to you with twice the force—fuck it, three times the force. We are not punished for our sins, we are punished by them.

The pain involved in a premeditated broken heart would easily compare with a case of assault, and yet no court of law would recognize it as a crime. A broken arm heals.

They say you’re not punished for your sins, you’re punished by them.

All of this and everything that follows could well be my own imaginings and totally unfounded.

unreliable and telling us, mansplaining essentially

She’d already attended exhibitions I’d only begun to read about. Films heard about were already memories to her.

There must be a schedule of some kind. An order. A structure she had in her mind about how the evening should proceed. I swallowed hard like someone who realizes he’s in over his head. Something not good was going to happen. But it wasn’t necessarily happening right now. It would happen soon, and she knew what it was and I didn’t.

Get good at chess; there is nothing more humiliating for a man than to be beaten intellectually by a beautiful woman. You’ll be able to cause him physical pain.

Cheated because she was probably planning a long-drawn-out death for me and now I had killed myself and denied her the pleasure. Also, it must have shown her how I played the life game: I’d self destruct rather than prolong pain.