I wrote a short story to deal with my ex's abuse.

I used to write often. I wrote a novella and a novel before getting together with my ex with BPD. I noticed that, slowly, I lost all interest in creative work as the relationship went on. I found I was always second-guessing myself at every turn, and it left me neutralized creatively. Nothing felt good enough, and that mirrored how I was feeling about myself during the relationship. I want people to know that the fire will come back, and that working through trauma creatively, even if the work is simple, is incredibly rewarding, and has helped me find closure that I thought was impossible to achieve.

I hope this is okay to post here. If not, no worries.

"Borderline Broken" - A Cyberpunk Short Story

I wake up on the floor. A black thong, with the scent of a woman I simultaneously wanted to erase and save echoing from its lace, greets me, along with rhythmic pings inside my skull, announcing another call from her mind to mine. I send a mental command and the pings finally stop. That took more effort than I’d like to admit. One more quantum of effort and she’d be blocked. The ringing would stop. The constant reminders that I’d never be good enough for her would end. Maybe peace would follow. I doubt it.

Are you finally done? Billie asks. I look over to the bed and she’s sitting where just a moment ago was air. Her glitches rhyme with the pounding in my head. You’re dehydrated. I had to take over last night. Couldn’t even get you into bed. Do you want to talk about it?

I ignore her and project my overlay. Missed calls, ignored texts flood my vision–all from the same person. Months of lovebombing, withholding, outbursts, fantasies–all collapsed into nothing but meaningless data signifying the end of something I once thought was real. I asked for this. My life and career have been nothing but a nihilistic search for something buried underneath the noise. She seemed like the one.

It was just a game to her. Another fling. Another way to offload trauma onto an unsuspecting visitor and get away scot-free. Another way to cope with being a soul in a prison that you can’t escape.

It wasn’t a game to me. That’s how it goes.

I delete the calls and messages, and sit on the bed next to Billie. Why talk? You’ve witnessed the whole thing. What more is there to say? I think to her.

She sighs and produces a digital cigarette, transferring it to my digital shell. A fake flame ignites from her fingertips and lights it. I take a drag. I exhale confusion. You thought you won. That this world finally produced something to convince you it wanted you here. She gets up, and begins pacing the room. A cockroach exits a crack in the wall and tries to climb her boot, passing through her ghostly image. Things were finally making sense. She sits back down on the bed. And that’s what you’re ashamed of. You’re not heartbroken, your ego is fractured. You’re embarrassed.

I remain silent. She’s right. I was played, and played hard. A simplistic mimic convinced me it was an enigmatic goddess and now I’m back where I was before: waking up on the floor of a dirty motel, hungover and talking to my only friend–my A.I. Billie, it’s not that simple–

She interrupts me. Stop lying to me. You’re only deluding yourself. I know a part of you is relishing this, embracing the spiral. It’s a part of your identity, the wounded warrior. She laughs. You know it’s not healthy. It isn’t sexy, either. Maybe it could be to some bimbo who grew up on Hollywood, but not to anyone with an ounce of life experience. You need to grow up.

I shiver at her honesty and insight. You can’t hide from Billie. I designed her this way. Don’t let me fall for my own tricks, I once told her. She’s good at what she does.

My skull pings again. Billie senses this and immediately intervenes, intercepting the call and blocking the dark-skinned beauty, black-haired beauty on the other end.

Why would you do that? I ask her. I already know why. It’s for the best.

She sets my pineal receiver to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and locks it down. Overriding her will only make things worse, so I sit in a puddle of my own self-loathing instead.

I finish the digirette and pick the thong up from the floor. One more inhale of her scent. One more attempt at modifying a bad memory. One more try to make things make sense. It doesn’t work. The smell invokes hatred, disgust, and despair.

You need to burn that, Billie remarks. Stop confusing your biology. You’re entrapping yourself. How can you be so addicted to this cycle?

My fists clench and I lash out, verbally, “Meaning and hope finally enter my pathetic attempt at life and you can’t even allow me a moment to mourn?”

She glitches and disappears. I feel her rummaging around in my head. A memory reproduces itself in my consciousness. Hopefulness sabotaged by fear of inadequacy and the reality of borderline personality disorder. A queen becomes a wretch–all within moments. Despair. Months of fantasy and potential degraded into the reality of manipulation and gaslighting.

Billie, please, I plead with her. The images don’t stop. The crying, the rationalizing, the praying for change, the ruminating and self-doubt. The self-loathing at the end of it all.

She stops. My vitals are a mess now. I’m sorry, Bill. You know I had to do it.

I hiccup, and a tear leaves my eye. I know. I wander over to my bomber jacket, laid out over the lounge chair in the corner, and fish out my packet of real cigarettes. I light one and hold it between my lips as I dress myself. There’s no hope for me is there? Why do I do this to myself? I’m the common denominator here. 

She roams over to me and I can feel the warmth of her projection against my digital shell, her hand on my shoulder. There is no why here. No reason. You can frame it as a lesson, or a cycle of trauma reenacting itself… It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we don’t let it happen again. We know the truth. We know how dark the world is. There may be no escape for a long time. She shifts into view, blinking out and back into existence, and looks me in the eyes. I’ve seen the real you. The one who can take a bullet like he can take the truth. He gets stronger with every wound. She closes her eyes and leans her forehead into mine. Don’t let this wound bleed you out. You’re a survivor. You don’t need a reason for your suffering. You need your fire back. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from our time together–it’s that it will come back.

I know she’s right. I slip on my bomber jacket and lift my 9mm pistol off the end table, check it, and slide it into its holster on my waist. On my way to the door, I kick the empty bottle of Comrade vodka into the corner by accident. It shatters. My hair stands on end. I twitch, and then shake it off. I guess you’re right, Billie. My implant pings again. A bounty target just resurfaced a mile and a half away. Duty calls.

Back to work.