That's all they ever are in the movies.
Heartless bastards.
Everyone watching says why is she with him?? like she's some kind of idiot.
She's not, you know.
They don't show you the broken pieces of her soul in the part where he cries in her arms about his past, fists clenching soiled red flags. You don't see those pieces get stitched together when he uses words like good and kind and doesn't deserve her, words she never heard all those times her mother tore her apart and her father didn't come home for dinner.
Too complicated to portray in the movies. I guess that's why the book is always better.
Still.
Those heartless bastards really do sell. Everyone loves a good hate target.
It's easier to remember them that way, too.
In real life.
Heartless Bastards. She might even ask herself if that title deserves all those capital letters.
They hurt more than they heal, though she'll log countless hours of self-sacrifice before she comes to the realization that ultimately ends the uneven exchange. Bitter is better. She'd rather hurt than remember the sweetness that made her stay. Her stomach turns at the memory of hypnotic touch, of long nights of passion. She doesn't want to remember words of admiration, love-filled eyes, bashful smiles, or the book of poetry dedicated to her that she would one day place on a street corner in the rain.
Easier to call it a trap. Manipulation. Stockholm Syndrome.
Harder to admit she could ever love someone that would hurt her so badly.
Hardest to admit how little she loved herself. And for how long.
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