Chapter 2: Mr Smith

‘Celeste’ is a work of fiction.

This character walked into my mind roughly five years ago and at that time I’d never even heard the word ‘narcissism’. Still, Celeste was there, alive and well, kicking at my subconscious mind.

Originally, the character of Celeste was a man, but something about it just didn’t feel right and three chapters in I realized it was because the character needed to be a woman. ‘Celeste’ was written in the form of a blog, because I wanted to give Celeste the freedom to tell her story directly to the audience.

While I may not have known about narcissism during Celeste’s inception, as my research into the topic evolved so did Celeste’s character. Celeste has characteristics of the classic female narcissist, the most obvious is her obsession with her own beauty. And while ‘Celeste’ is most definitely a work of fiction I have adopted characteristics from actual female narcissists I have encountered and layered them into her character.

I’ve decided to put the book on the blog because I wanted to have the perspective of a female narcissist as well. Many of the situations in the book are exaggerated examples of the malignant narcissist/psychopath dynamic, but as it is a work of fiction I took poetic license to write it that way.

As for ‘Celeste’… during a time when my life was falling apart I could go inside her head and for a few hours she gave me respite. She is the anti-heroine, a ‘Wonder Woman’ for the broken and to say she saved me is not too far from the truth. Writing ‘Celeste’ helped me understand the mind of the narcissist. I could write from my perspective and hers and in doing so it helped me craft some of the methods I use for ‘Bending Narcissism.’

Good evening. Have you waited with bated breath for me to come back online? I do hope I haven’t entered into the realm of false beliefs about my greatness. I don’t say that because I care what you think of me. I must be very clear on this point. Your opinion doesn’t matter in the slightest. I just have no use for false beliefs of oneself. I find it tedious.

Now, you have returned this evening for a reason. I made you a promise and I shall keep it. How I abhor that it was a man who created me, but I refuse to make up an alternate tale. I am not a child after all and I’m certainly not afraid of my own history. It’s something humans should learn, and so many of you don’t. History cannot be rewritten. It stays as it lays, so to speak. Ahhh, but the future, that is the place where you can create whatever you like. The future is where I will have my revenge on the most worthy adversary I have ever encountered.

Mr Smith…writing his name now I feel a frisson of excitement. The path is now set, the future is evolving in accordance with my plan and not his. Mr Smith…that isn’t his name, of course. Why do I use a ‘Mr.’? Have I watched too many episodes of Sex and the City? Is he my version of Mr. Big? Don’t be so utterly ridiculous. In my world someone as nauseatingly obnoxious as Mr. Big would have been destroyed within a month. And for the record, Carrie wouldn’t have lasted much longer. She continued to take him back over and over again. I believe that show created a whole generation of men who suddenly realized, ‘Hey, we can treat women like shit and they’ll take it all in the hope that one day we will reform.’

But, back to my ‘MR.’

I call him ‘Mr.’ to show respect… respect for the power he held over me, for the cruelty he wielded against me, and for the evolution he forced me to endure. I chose ‘Mr.’ to remind me never to underestimate my adversary. I chose ‘Mr.’ so that when the times comes to showcase my power I won’t waiver.

As for Smith; what could be a greater insult to the man I hate most in this world than to give him the most commonplace name in America? Smith is my private joke and those who’ve heard me refer to him in this way find it ridiculous, cliché even, but they don’t understand him or me.

The connection was there from the first. His mind, by far the most extraordinary I’ve ever encountered. Have you ever had that experience? Have you ever met a mind that compelled you to greater heights? Have you known what it feels like to have your mind move at lightning speed and still feel like you’re lagging to keep up? Have you known that kind of beauty, that only exists in combination with brilliance? Because that is truly the only way you can come close to understanding our relationship.

College had not prepared me for a man such as Mr Smith. I’m loath to say that. So many of you are anti-education these days, not simply anti-education, but anti-intellectualism, basically anti-anything that disrupts your limited world view. But this is not the time to launch into a diatribe about education, especially as there were clearly holes in mine at the moment of my auspicious meeting with Mr Smith.

I’d spent years thinking I was in control. So, I’d caused a few suicides here and there, manipulated the homecoming queen into filming a porn film with two members of the football team, outed a homophobic preacher’s kid, you know, standard psychopathic fare, or so I’d thought.
The real world was different. It was where Mr Smith had honed his craft and I was no match for him, at least not then.

You mustn’t think this is a story about good vs evil. I am hardly good and this is not a fairy tale. But it is a story of evil conquering something more evil, and you must admit that is elegant poetic justice.

Think of your most ardent beliefs about love, that feeling that sweeps you away to peaks you never imagined existed. Now think of your greatest fears, and imagine the person who brought you to such peaks taking you through the trenches of your worst nightmares. Imagine your mind shattering at the colossal cluster-fuck that is such an experience. Had I been human I would not have survived.

I know, I said ‘love’. Now, you’re thinking I’m lying. Just calm down. There is nothing fake about me. It wasn’t love that got me, most definitely not. It was the feeling of finally being accepted. That’s what he created for me. To explain it to you, to humanity I have to call it love. It’s what you people understand, but it wasn’t love. It was finally meeting someone like me, someone who reveled in his otherness and didn’t try to hide it.

You think he freed me from loneliness, but I’m never lonely. I keep an ever-changing roster of people always at the ready to go for a drink, discuss philosophy if I am so inclined, shop, eat, fuck, whatever I want. Every decent psychopath has a fan club at the ready. We are never lonely, but we do get bored. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I put my intellect to better use, but people fascinate me so much. I guarantee you the geek who wrote the algorithm on social media that makes you fight all the time is one of my brethren. Social media is nothing more than a big trap for rats. You’re being manipulated en masse and you don’t even know it. Yep, one of those geeks just decided his red bull/porn habit wasn’t getting it done anymore and he decided to mess with a few zeros and ones. (To be fair, I know nothing about programming. My eyes bleed from boredom thinking about it, but I know zeros and ones are involved.)

Why do you think we are always screwing with all of you? Pretending to be normal is a full-time job. And guess what? Normal people aren’t allowed to say, ‘Shut the fuck up. No one cares about your baby, your new car, your new miracle diet, cleanse, no carb plan.’ If I were an average sociopath I would gladly take out the keto/vegan/Atkin’s devotees. Every January when dieting season begins my drive to slit their wrists increases.

Normal life is mundane, but Mr Smith introduced me to his world, where I could be free. With him I could say what I liked. I could brag about my conquests. He taught me games I hadn’t learned to play yet, seductions that took time. He taught me how to temper my mind in a room full of people, how to say what I wanted but in an irreverent way so that everyone thought I was joking. He taught me how to be free in the outside world. He was a confidante. And then he took it all away, piece by piece.

You lose someone you love and you say, ‘Oh, he was the love of my life. I’ll never get over him.’ You cry over shared music that you’d both loved. Chances are after a few weeks, months if you are particularly emotive, you will be over the worst of what was done to you.

That was not the case for me. I will not tell you the whole story now. That is not how this works. Were I to do so then I would be nothing better than a story you recalled from a made-for-tv movie. I vomit a little in my mouth thinking I could ever be that cliché.

I am not like you. I do not have emotional depths attached to what I am describing. I have memories. I have logic, and I have rage. In case you are saying to yourself, ‘But rage is an emotion.’ Not to a psychopath it isn’t. We call it a state of being. Those of us who have evolved are able to keep it closely protected. We can unleash anger at any time we choose. We only let it out to play for special occasions.

I’m a woman. Our anger must be still, controlled, doled out as a carefully timed passive aggressive insult to those who have irked us. To be fair to my sex, when we do get miffed and scream we are labelled hysterical, and yet a man can be confirmed to the Supreme Court of the United States after he blubbers like a man-baby on national television, not to mention becoming a literal meme for contempt. There’s a reason women drink so much wine, but I digress.

What I feel for Mr Smith is something different. There will come a time in the telling of my story that I unleash the rage. You will feel it, even through the brightness of your computer screen. You will understand it as a feeling you have never experienced, not truly. You think rage is an expression. It might make you scream, break down and cry, possibly throw something or hit someone. But it passes. It doesn’t endure. Apologies are given and you move on. Ahhh, my dear sweet humans, that is not rage. That’s anger, a mere blip on the screen of what I feel when I think about Mr Smith. I sound calm, don’t I? Under complete control. That’s the difference between us, you see. Rage is calm. It stays under the surface and waits to be unleashed. It plots. It manipulates. It never evaporates, but is always there…waiting. The world is a mysterious place and has a way of coming full circle. Sixth months ago. That was when it happened. The day Mr Smith walked backed into my life began like any other. Sex with my gorgeous trainer, after he worked me out, of course. Beauty must be maintained. (A little side note. I don’t maintain my beauty because the media tells me to do so. I do it because it gives me pleasure and power. I do so love it when I get to combine those things. It’s what makes life worth living; that, and sex, and revenge, of course.) There I was, minding my own business, doing a little Facebook stalking before my first client walked into complain about her ridiculous life and there he was. His beautiful face popped up on the suggestions of ‘People you may know.’ I wish I could describe what it felt like to see him again. Are you perhaps wondering why I’d never tried to find him before? Here I am telling you all about my magnificence. Surely I couldn’t be afraid of him, afraid of his mastery. It wasn’t fear that made me stay in the shadows. It was the knowledge that he would re-enter my life at the opportune moment. As I said, rage is the barometer of a psychopath. His return was inevitable. Still that first glance was like a punch in the gut. All that beauty, all that power, looking out on me from a screen. I have no idea how I got through my clients that day. Luckily it’s not as if I really listen to them, and the complaints are always a variation on a theme. I only have to nod as a bored housewife talks about feeling useless (I’m dying to give her my trainer’s number) or an almost ‘sell-by-date’ athlete whines about his future after ‘whatever ball sport he plays’ ends.

Mr Smith, Mr Smith, Mr Smith, his half sardonic smile was firmly lodged in my mind throughout the day. He was older, of course, but still beautiful, so much more beyond handsome.

The day he moved back to Chicago I gave myself a special gift, a magnificent lover I could enjoy fucking and a lousy lover whose marriage and career I would slowly destroy. It was such a good day. It’s how a psychopath celebrates. I still smile when I think about it.

I liked watching Mr Smith through the electronic realm. His magnificent ego was his biggest asset, and his Achilles heel. He was a slut. I don’t say that as an insult. Beautiful men should have sex with lots of women, and he did, and advertised it. He enjoyed the humiliation of the women, coupled with their unabashed desire to win him back after he had used them. I could hardly blame the women. Mr Smith has no peers. I’ve never met a man who was Mr Smith’s equal when it came to sex, and I have done exhaustive research.

He triangulated his victims on his Facebook page. The comments section was rife with their rivalries. I could see him reading their thoughts, laughing as he tweaked their insecurities. Women are especially susceptible to this kind of manipulation. You compare yourselves to others so easily, as if you see nothing unique in yourself at all. Even if I weren’t a psychopath you make it impossible to feel sorry for you.

Are you judging me now, thinking, ‘Well you’re not so special, you fell for it.’ No, my dears, he played a far different game with me. But, that is for later…

I friended him under a false name and photo, of course. I would never put anything real on social media. I was pretty enough for him to want me to watch him, but not so pretty he would come looking for me. I certainly didn’t want a surprise visit to interrupt my plans for him.

I do wonder if he thinks about me. Does he remember how I felt beneath him, when he was inside me? Does he remember how he controlled me with his every stroke, with his mouth, with his hands? Does he remember how he’d push me up against a wall and I’d collapse against him? I’m not against the odd walk down memory lane. It almost makes me not want to destroy him… ALMOST.

I normally have a rule against destroying my excellent lovers, but one mustn’t be too functionally fixed. It makes a person so dull.

A special lover is required, someone who will be a symbol of all I despise. My first choice must be somebody who will annoy Mr Smith, someone he’s using, someone who might just force him to pause for a moment, perhaps cause a flicker of concern. But, of course, his ego could never let him believe I could be a threat. To him I am nothing, simply a discarded, worthless thing that he bested. That’s if he remembers me. But rest assured, I plan to make reminding him so much fun.

Now, by choosing my first target, I am actually giving significance to an otherwise inconsequential life, not that she’ll thank me. It’s such a pity people are so ungrateful.

I’ve known all along who my target would be. A perfect target is a perfect victim and I am always in search of symmetry.

All in good time. I’m not quite ready yet. I have my vices, but I believe in timing. Although patience is a virtue I hate having to adhere to, I do find it necessary at times. So I wait, but waiting is not without its rewards and I do believe in being kind to myself.

Tonight I need a man to satisfy my other intrinsic desire, and I always find men to be more satisfactory in slaking that particular fire.

I’m off to hunt. Chicago has no shortage of handsome, single or married men who are more than willing to entertain me for a few hours. It’s so convenient to be born beautiful. What must it be like to ‘work’ to get the attention of a man? Would I have to bow and scrape and fawn over their ridiculous perceptions of their own greatness? Would I have to stare up at them with big eyes and smile prettily or worse yet, would I have to entice them to drink so I could entice them into bed? The thought of such pedestrian methods makes me shudder.

But enough. Time to find someone to fuck me. Certainly you didn’t think I ‘make love’. Not for me, the sweet Saturday night ‘making love’ which begins with an ‘I love you’, and ends with a snore.

I like sex up against the wall, on the floor, in the car. And now I will go on a hunt to find a man who will give me exactly what I want, exactly what I need, because I’m me and I can. And therein lies the truth. I can do whatever the hell I please…And I do.

So go back to your television programs, your wine, your porn, but visit me again tomorrow evening when you’re feeling sad, or lonely, or maybe just a bit curious about where my journey is headed. I promise not to disappoint. It would just not do. And feel free to tell your friends about me. I am absolutely determined to become a viral sensation. As in all things I aim for excellence. And I have no plans to wallow on the outskirts of the internet, like some ugly cousin everyone talks about, but is too nice to un-invite to family events. Until tomorrow evening my darlings.

Goodnight from your friendly neighborhood psychopath…

Stuckey, M.A.


Bending narcissism

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Catherine Stuckey, M.A.

Having taught English for years I never thought I’d be translating what the narcissist says to other people.

I’ve spent four years researching the world of narcissism, through work, dating and personal interviews. My mission is to help others recognize narcissism and through this recognition stop the narcissistic cycle from continuing.

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Catherine Stuckey, M.A.