[ WP ] A sociopath who desperately wants to feel love

Love. It ’ s so simple for most people. I walk past a park on my way home from work. I see old couples holding hands, young couples kissing and groping each other ( the groping I understand, at least. ) People who are in love…they…they have this look. Like nothing else exists but them. It ’ s cliché, I know. But they ’ re oblivious to everyone around them. 
 
 At first I saw love as nothing more than a curiosity—when my friends were growing up they all had puppies, kittens, or hamsters growing up that they “ loved ”. I ’ d have to spend hours watching them caress and stroke these tiny, useless balls of fur. I can appreciate the feel of the fur, don ’ t get me wrong, but they don ’ t need to be alive for that. All of that responsibility: the cleaning the litterbox, taking them for walks, the feeding, the bathing. Ugh. So much work for something so. Utterly. Useless. I couldn ’ t understand it. Why would anyone care? Why would anyone do so much for something so insubstantial in return? But that got me thinking. 
 
 In high school I learned the real power of “ love ” —or maybe I ’ d better call it lust. Men who “ loved ” me would do anything I wanted. They would buy me expensive jewelry, spend their savings on romantic restaurants, and take me to the latest movies. All I had to do in return was say some pretty words, kiss them, touch their genitals rhythmically, and let them touch me. They thought they loved me, but what they loved sex and kind words. That can ’ t have been real love. For them or me. 
 
 College was much the same, except infinitely better. Free drinks, staying in nice apartments…But I ’ m getting off track. Love. At this point I was angry. Angry at the men who threw themselves at me. *They made it so easy* for me to destroy them, to take what I wanted and send them out the door as I put on my makeup—preparing to find my next victim. They were so stupid, so easy, so weak. To a one I manipulated them all. Except for Ryan. 
 
 Ryan saw me for what I was. Saw me for the loveless emotional vampire that I very well may be. But he didn ’ t care. He threw himself at me like a soldier trying to cover a grenade. He impaled himself on the destroyed shell that is my heart. And he tried everything. I took him for *everything* he was worth—his money, his self-esteem, his grades, his friends. I took it all away from him. And still he stayed, beaten but unbroken. He held me after I told him about the first affair, his tears wet on my bare shoulder. He held my hand after I told him about the second, his face haggard. When I told him about the third he just sat across from me his head buried in his hands. He killed himself not too long after that. I don ’ t blame myself—some people are just weak, I guess. 
 
 But as I stared at his casket ( closed, of course ) I found a hole in myself, a deep well I hadn ’ t noticed before. How could someone prefer to death to the absence of love? How strong must love be that its absence makes life unliveable? As I stared down on the box that held Ryan ’ s cold body I felt a seething hatred, a burning hatred that Ryan had access to something so powerful. I tried to rationalize the feeling away—I knew how love could be manipulated, *it is a weakness. * But Ryan had chosen death over the absence of an emotion I have never felt. I imagine it ’ s what a blind person might feel when someone describes the feelings a masterpiece evokes. So close to unending beauty and yet so achingly, agonizingly far. 
 
 Since that funeral I ’ ve spent every day trying to find love. I ’ ve dated many, many…many men. Some women. But none have found the key to unlocking my the space where my heart should be. I ’ d like to know what love is. But if I can ’ t feel it, no one else should. I think if my date tonight doesn ’ t go well I ’ ll pay a visit to the young couple in the park tomorrow. 

