My guest today is a barely discernible shadow of a person — the shadow of a once vibrant, blooming woman with a beautiful face and deep eyes the color of dark chocolate.

  I place a cup of scalding hot coffee and a plate of cherries drizzled with bitter almond syrup in front of her. The shadow is unable to accept the treat, but perhaps the coffee’s aroma will give her a little encouragement — just enough to share her story…

  “I chose this fate myself. I knew what happens for this kind of thing, but I hoped things would be different for me — that I wouldn’t face retribution.

  But I don’t regret it. I guess I don’t regret much of anything.”

  The shadow sighs sadly and leans toward the cup. The smell of coffee seems to momentarily invigorate her. A faint blush appears on her once-beautiful face…

  “I met him and fell in love instantly. He was incredibly beautiful. I don’t even have the words to describe those feelings…

  He sat surrounded by friends, playing the guitar — drunk, free as the wind, with a mischievous glint in his bottle-green eyes. Oh, those delightfully long, musical fingers, how masterfully they plucked the strings, how gracefully his wrist moved.

  And when he began to sing, I realized I was lost. That voice resonated somewhere deep within my soul — so rich, so husky, with that stirring roughness.”

  Even now, years later, my guest recalls that meeting and is literally ignited by the scorching flames of passion and lust. She continues to be consumed by this man and, it seems, shows no remorse for her actions…

  “I wanted to be with him at all costs.

  At first, I tried the traditional methods: getting to know him, spending as much time as possible in the same company.

  Of course, he noticed my interest — and accepted it graciously. A few walks and sex. But that wasn’t enough for me. I didn’t want a casual relationship. I wanted this man — to walk beside him through life.

  And this desire was all-consuming. It devoured me completely, displacing rationality. And yet, at that point, I was in a relationship. A pretty serious one, in fact — we were actively moving toward living together, maybe even marriage.

  I needed to be near him. He became my sun, without which I would instantly freeze and fall into a deafening, endless void. I didn’t care about his words, his actions, his interests, or his goals. It was an obsession bordering on madness.

  And the more time we spent together, the more I wanted.

  Needless to say, at some point my obsession began to annoy him. He started to distance himself — going days without calling, refusing to visit, or canceling group gatherings if he knew I’d be there.

  Things were starting to take a dangerous turn. I literally felt like I would die if he turned away. He had become the meaning of my life. And so, I took the plunge. I cast a love spell.”

  The guest looked up at me. Her proudly raised head and the slightly fanatical glint in her eyes confirmed once again that she regretted nothing.

  I silently poured boiling water into her cup...

  “Everything worked. Maybe not as quickly as I’d hoped, but the result was achieved. Within just a few months, he had completely moved in with me. We practically never left our bed back then. True, he was rarely sober, if ever.

  No, nothing critical — just enough to get in the mood. But I could never keep up with him when it came to drinking. And his intake kept growing.

  There was one time when things got out of hand. He’d had too much to drink again and showed up home at dawn. He was upset because his bike had been stolen. I decided to teach him a lesson and didn’t open the door. He was so loud and violent in his attempts to get into the apartment that the neighbors had to call the police.

  It was the first time I wasn’t scared — but I was, at the very least, seriously worried.

  But everything quickly went back to normal. He sobered up a bit, apologized. And, naturally, I forgave him immediately.

  He started drinking almost constantly. Hardly a day went by without a couple of liters of beer — and that was the best-case scenario. Then came the drinking sessions with friends, the middle-of-the-night or early-morning binges.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I became hysterical, throwing fits and jealous scenes. I started having health problems and gaining a lot of weight. And because of that, I thought it was my fault — that he was drinking because I was no longer attractive enough to him… or that I never was…

  On the rare days he was sober, he became incredibly irritable—nagging and picking fights at home, throwing jealous fits outside the apartment. That man in the store had looked at me too intently, and yesterday I hadn’t picked up the phone quickly enough when he called. And tomorrow I was planning to go to the mall with my friends.

  The jealousy reached the point of absurdity. And then came the beatings. At first, it was just a slap—more insulting than painful. But then things got worse…

  One night, he came home so drunk he didn’t even know where he was. He somehow made it home on autopilot, and then the last remnants of common sense completely failed him. He thought it was his friend’s apartment. And since I was there, it meant I was cheating on him—with that friend, right behind his back. That time left finger marks on my shoulders and wrists, and a bruise on my cheekbone.

  In the morning, there were apologies—and even a trip to my parents’ place to finally sleep it off and think about what to do next.

  And he came up with an idea. He turned out to be much stronger…

  He stopped drinking. He said he’d made his decision. And he asked for forgiveness. Even his parents apologized for him. I was emotionally distraught, a little scared and hurt, but I believed him.

  We started living again. Calmly, even relatively peacefully.

  But if he had once drowned his pent-up emotions in alcohol, now all his aggression began to pour out into domestic squabbles. And the jealousy remained.

  He stopped hitting me, but became much more skilled at humiliating and hurting me. He began to destroy me psychologically. At first, it was petty attacks and meaningless reproaches, but then every word of his cut deeper and hurt more than any slap or bruise.

  He mercilessly dissected everything—from my parents’ failed marriage and “improper upbringing,” to openly malicious remarks about my appearance.

  I’ve never been a beauty, and constant stress doesn’t make anyone prettier. But those calculated comments about how I wasn’t a girl anymore, how short skirts or certain lacy lingerie didn’t suit me—that was incredibly difficult and painful. At first, I tried to joke it off, then I responded with hysterics and scandals, and finally I just started ignoring him.

  But I heard. And I reacted. I stopped buying new clothes. Gradually, all the short dresses and skirts disappeared from my wardrobe—and then all the bright ones. Only basics remained, a couple of tracksuits, and something resembling pajamas.

  That wasn’t enough for him. He never tired of reproaching me.

  And I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him about the love spell. And I promised to fix everything. He laughed in my face. Said I believed all kinds of nonsense, that being with me was his conscious choice. And I once again proved to him that I was a dimwitted fool who still needed to be taught and disciplined…”

  The shadow wrapped her arms around her shoulders and swayed. Heavy, suffocating memories were draining her last strength. Hot coffee could only prolong her stay in this world for a brief moment—delay the reckoning…

  “At some point, I couldn’t take it anymore and left. Not for long—just a couple of hours. I walked to the nearest supermarket, bought some cigarettes, and smoked half a pack, staring blankly at the cars passing by. Maybe I should have taken that step back then...

  Something awaited me at home — a slap — loud and bitter, as if he had poured all his worries onto me. And then a feverish embrace, even more painful than the blow. He held me as if I were a small, foolish child who had miraculously escaped something terrible. He was so genuinely afraid and worried about me that he came down with a terrible headache and fever. He was sick for a whole week. I felt so ashamed and sorry for him.

  But recovery brought no relief. He became even more subtle in expressing his hatred toward me. No more open insults or sneering remarks—and certainly no physical violence. Now it was… advice. Truly, as if he were teaching a small child. And any disobedience on my part led to deliberate insults and accusations that I wasn’t making any effort to build a happy life together.

  It was a grave mistake to hope the love spell could be undone easily and without consequences. It had lasted too long, and those red ribbons of magic had dug too deeply into our bodies.

  For a while, it seemed to me that everything was fine… but it was a fatal illusion. We started talking about having a child...

  He started drinking again. There were several more fights. Long sleeves hid the bruises well…

  I got pregnant and couldn’t spend all my time with him anymore. He took advantage of that and started disappearing again—first for work, then with old friends who suddenly reappeared.

  Had the love spell weakened, and he felt free? I didn’t know what to do. I became even more hysterical and unstable.

  The baby was born prematurely… very weak and sick… It took almost a year and a half for the little one to recover and catch up with her peers in growth and development.

  And then I saw the endless, all-consuming love I had once craved from him. He devoted all that passion to his daughter. And I became a piece of furniture, a household appliance — a person who simply did chores and basic childcare for her child.

  He allowed her absolutely everything. Her every whim was instantly fulfilled. All I got was reproaches and contempt. And the little one quickly absorbed this behavior pattern. I pulled her hair too hard while braiding her ponytail—she’d run to complain to Daddy, and I’d immediately get scolded or pushed.

  I cooked the wrong thing for lunch—same story. The wrong dress, no candy, bath too short, bedtime too early… any reason was enough to start another fight.

  I grew even sicker. I went through several surgeries. I could no longer have children.

  He stopped paying attention to me. I became a faceless servant, a pesky fly who still dared to demand things for herself and had grown cold toward her daughter...

  The love spell finally stopped working. He stayed with her. He gave his daughter all the love and unspent tenderness I had once craved. He gave himself entirely to this fragile, sickly child—and one morning, he simply didn’t wake up. The doctors said it was cardiac arrest...

  By then, I had become almost invisible in mirrors. Even the doctors spoke only to my daughter, while I stood like a silent shadow in the far corner of the room. I looked one last time at that empty, sickly pale body—it hardly resembled the man I had so desperately and hopelessly desired...

  I silently turned around and simply walked through the wall…”

  The guest took one last sip of cold coffee, smiled sadly, and vanished. The faded, blood-red silk ribbon of the love spell slid off the table…

  I can make a drink for you too. Just say the word.