My Boyfriend is Taking Pieces of me While I Sleep
I’ve always been a people pleaser. Even as a kid, I’ve always had the hardest time asserting myself or saying no. As long as the other person’s content, I could deal with some uncomfortable feelings. It probably has something to do with daddy issues. At least that’s what all my therapists have told me, obviously not using those exact words. Although, I don’t know if hearing the question “How’s your relationship with your father?” from some old broad after dumping half of my trauma is any better. Anyway, I‘ve been through some shit. It’s kind of a blessing and a curse when you think about it. Going through trauma can simultaneously be debilitating and advantageous. I’ve always had boyfriend problems. That was until I met him. There was nothing terribly special about Tristan that met the eye. He was attractive, for sure, but nothing that could turn heads. At 27, he still lived with his parents until he moved in with me. He didn’t really have any sort of career either. He worked at our local grocery store bagging groceries for the mostly elderly people who lived in our lazy town in central Florida. He was also kind of a sickly guy, he was always in and out of urgent care with some sort of pain or ailment of sorts. Even if he was smiling and happy, his face was always slightly tense, like he was in physical pain and trying to ignore it. It was just kind of weird because there was never actually anything wrong with him. Like, there was no diagnosis. He was just ill. His personality is what got me, though. The second he opens his mouth, everyone’s on him like flies. I remember when we first started dating, my parents had met him a total of two times when they told me that I should marry the guy. Every friend I’ve ever had became one of his good friends too. They’d rant and rave about how much of a genuinely good guy he was. He really, really was. I felt so insanely lucky, especially because he was such a breath of fresh air compared to the other sleazeballs I’d wasted my time with. He wasn’t lustful like the others. He didn’t even bring up the idea of having sex until I brought it up first. He was in touch with his emotions too. I mean, the first time he told me he loved me he had tears in his eyes. And ever since, he’d profess his love for me time and time again, going into great detail about how I was the love of his life and his soulmate. We did everything together, and it wasn’t long until we moved in together. It was like an endless sleepover with my bestest friend. Finally, I was at peace. Up until a few weeks ago. I was driving him to work and we were blasting The 1975 on my radio, occasionally cringing because the speakers were blown. Tristan lowered the volume of the music and looked at me, like he always does when he has something to ask me that I might have a problem with. I side-eyed him and chuckled. “What’s up? I know that look.” He also chuckled and turned away from me, trying to mask the bashful look on his face. “Nah, um. I was just wondering, baby…” He put his hand on my thigh and caressed it. “Could you cover dinner for today? It could be something cheap like fast food. I just… I don’t have a lot right now.” I clenched my jaw. That hadn’t been the first time he’s asked me that. Or second or third. Matter of fact, he’d blow through his check in a matter of days, and I was the idiot to pay for our expenses for the next two weeks. He’d spend it on frivolous knick-knacks or clothing, or sometimes blow it all on a night out with friends. I always told myself it was okay though. He was good to me, and that’s all that mattered. He’s a good man, I thought. He’s a good man, Saman— “Samantha.” His voice broke my train of thought. I looked up at him, studying his face while he went on about how he’s sorry, and he’ll do better budgeting his money next check. I nodded periodically, his words nothing but a buzzing in my ears as I totally disassociated, watching his mouth move. Just keep him happy, I thought again. Don’t start a problem. That night I laid awake, biting my nails and staring blankly at the ceiling. Tristan was sleeping peacefully next to me. He was taking long, slow breaths and had the same peaceful look on his face he has when he’s fast asleep. He’d cough and wheeze periodically, sometimes getting into fits so bad that he’d wake up. Whenever that happened, I made sure to hold him tight. Thoughts that were unwelcome in my brain came and went. I tried to ignore them as best as I could. In my struggle, I finally dozed off. I woke up to the smell of breakfast. The kind that shouldn’t have existed in our kitchen: bacon, toast, eggs, and that sweet buttery aroma of something actually being cooked. I could hear a pan scraping against the stove. Something sizzling. My face scrunched up in confusion. Tristan didn’t cook. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was always too tired, or his back hurt, or his joints were locking up again. But this morning, he was whistling. I sat up slowly. The room swayed a little when I did, like I’d gotten up too fast. I blinked the sleep away and rubbed my eyes till I saw spirals in my vision. That’s when I felt it. My hand throbbed. Not the kind of ache you get from sleeping weird, or bumping into a doorframe. It was hot. Sore. I looked down and gasped quietly. A chunk of skin from the bottom right side of my palm was missing. Clean, almost surgical, like I’d slipped with a knife. I didn’t remember doing anything like that. Surely I would’ve remembered nicking myself? The rawness had already scabbed over slightly, but the skin around it was red and irritated. I winced as I pressed down on the cut; it felt tender to the touch. I stared at it for a long time. Just a cut, I thought to myself. Nothing serious. Probably scratched it on something while I slept. Maybe the bedframe. Maybe my own nail. I honestly didn’t try to think about it too much. I chalked it up to being paranoid. “Samantha?” Tristan called from the kitchen, voice bright and bubbly. “You up, baby?” I smiled at him. “Yeah.” He peeked his head in. He was already showered, his black hair damp, skin flushed with color. There was a sort of liveliness to him that hadn’t been there in weeks. Almost like someone had reached inside him and turned up the volume. Even his voice was clearer. “You feel okay?” he asked. “You look a little pale.” He gazed at me lovingly, his eyes full of concern and admiration. “I’m fine, just tired.” “Breakfast is ready.” He grinned. God, I could never get over that smile. I’d give up all the money in the world just to see it. “You’re in a good mood,” I mused. He shrugged. “Woke up feeling great. Like, really great.” He walked over and kissed my forehead. I caught the faint smell of aftershave and coffee on his breath. I absolutely loved seeing him like this, and it made me beyond happy that he was feeling better than usual. He lingered a second. “I love you,” he said. I swallowed. “I love you too.” He didn’t ask why I kept my hand under the blanket. I wore a hoodie that day. I tucked my bandaged hand inside the sleeve, telling Tristan I’d nicked it on a drawer handle. He didn’t just kiss the bandage, he gently took my hand in his, cradling it like it was something precious. “You gotta be more careful, baby,” he said softly. His voice was warm. Genuinely concerned. He rubbed small circles into my palm with his thumb. And just like that, I felt the pit in my stomach shrink, even if was just a little. Tristan seemed lighter that day. Happier. The usual dull pain in his back was gone like magic. He didn’t say it, but I could tell in the way he stood—straighter, less guarded. He even carried the groceries without making a sound. “You look… good,” I said, watching him cautiously. He smiled, almost shyly, and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s because of you.” I felt a blissful, warm feeling in my chest. It was moments like that that made everything else worth it. A week passed. Then another. The wounds came back. Each morning, something new. A split lip. A scabbed patch behind my ear. A bruise on my ribs I couldn’t explain. Sometimes I could barely walk. It was honestly becoming debilitating, and I started to question my sanity. I mean, how many times could I unknowingly hurt myself? The sentiment was a bit creepy, and I worried I was maybe blacking out and unintentionally hurting myself. I asked Tristan about it tentatively when we were curled up together on the couch or cuddled up in bed. “Do you think maybe I sleepwalk? Maybe I’m hurting myself without knowing?” I was starting to get really worried. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. He would frown and pull me in tighter. “I think you’ve just been stressed, baby,” he said once, brushing the hair from my face. “With everything you’ve been through… your dad, the shit from your past… it’s bound to show up in weird ways. Trauma is funny like that.” That’s how he always brought it back. Never mean, exactly. Just… unsettling. The way he’d dance around the topic, but address it just enough to keep me calm. So I believed him. I took comfort in his words. Then there were the other little things. The receipts I’d find crumpled in the trash. T-shirts, sneakers, a record player. Things he never showed me, never even mentioned. I think he noticed I was looking through the trash for receipts, because he started throwing them in the bin outside. When I noticed that, a bubble of anger and resentment grew in my chest. I was only one person and holding the entire house down. I was the one paying our rent. Groceries. Car. Everything. Not to mention, he never took me out anymore. You’d think with all this newfound energy, he’d be a little thoughtful now and then. Unfortunately, I had grown used to his behavior. When I confronted him gently, half-laughing to mask my nerves and soften the blow, he didn’t even deny it. “Well, I mean… what do you want me to do?” he said, voice raising just slightly. “You make more money than me. I’m trying my best, Samantha. God. Why do you always have to make me feel like a fucking loser? Why is nothing I do ever enough for you? I’ve been through some awful things. Unimaginable. You’ll never understand me.” I blinked back tears and tried to steady my breathing as he shouted at me. “Tristan, I… I’m not trying to make you feel that way. All I’m asking for is a little help now and then.” My voice was shaky and fragile, laced with uncertainty and a painful fear of conflict and abandonment. “It’s hard doing everything alone.” I expected him to pull me closer, to tell me everything was going to be okay. I should’ve known better. It was always a hit or miss with him. There was a deafeningly loud bang as his fist broke through the bed frame. I jumped, heart racing out of shock and fear. “You are privileged!” he roared. He looked at me with pure hatred and disgust. “I’ve been through far worse than you. And anything you did go through was your fault.” He leaned in close to me, so close his lips were touching my ear. “Live with that.” Shaking, I backed down. I always did. It didn’t matter what he said to me. I couldn’t bear to abandon him. He had a good heart. That I knew for sure. That night, when he got home from work, he came into the bedroom crying, knelt beside me, and clutched my hand. “I’m sorry. Look at me,” he said, cupping my face with his big hands. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I should never get like that with you. It’s cruel and disgusting. I just—I get scared sometimes, okay? I feel like I’m not enough for you. I project my own insecurities onto you and it isn’t okay. None of what I said is true. I’m a fuck-up.” So I stayed. The next injury was different. I woke up with a chunk of skin missing from the top of my thigh. A clean, raw circle. I nearly passed out when I saw it. “What the hell?” I exclaimed. Tristan found me in the bathroom, shaking. He didn’t panic. Instead, he wrapped me in a towel and whispered in my ear like it was all a bad dream. “Baby, let me take care of you,” he murmured. He cleaned the wound with practiced hands. “What’s happening to me?” I asked, voice breaking. “I think I’m falling apart.” He looked me up and down, eyes full of admiration. “You’re not,” he said. “I’ve never seen you more beautiful.” He kissed the wound. Then he kissed me. I melted into him, like I always did. Then came the first time he called me a bitch. It was over money again. I had asked him not to spend our shared savings on a new watch. I wasn’t even mad. Just tired. Hollowed out. Drained. “Oh, don’t start with that,” he muttered. “God, I swear you’ve been such a bitch lately.” The words hit like a slap. He didn’t even look up from his phone. When I started to cry, he snapped at me and told me I was being sensitive. Later, he said he didn’t mean it. That he didn’t even remember saying it. He cried again. He told me he didn’t know how to love. That he hated himself and didn’t understand why I loved him so much. Why I stayed despite everything. “I don’t want to be like the people who’ve hurt me,” he whispered. “I want to be good to you.” And I said, “You are. You’re nothing like them.” Because part of me still believed it. Or needed to. More time passed. The injuries deepened. Nerve damage. Fever. The cuts were more severe. And through it all, Tristan only seemed healthier. Glowing, even. His laugh was easier. His voice stronger. He started dressing better. Smiling more. “You’re doing this,” he said one morning, placing a perfect hand over my ruined one. “I don’t know how, but you’re healing me. Thank you.” The look in his eyes was soft. Grateful. It made my chest ache. Looking back, it should’ve been terrifying. I almost knew he had something to do with this. One morning, I limped to our bathroom, panicking because of a searing, throbbing pain in my mouth. To my horror, my canine tooth was gone. It looked like it had been ripped clean off my gums. I screamed, shrill and raw, knowing no one could hear me because Tristan had already left for work. In my panic, something caught my eye. There was a single piece of crumpled toilet paper in the trash can next to the toilet. I wouldn’t have looked twice at it, if it didn’t look like it was badly wrapped around something and tossed in there. My stomach dropped. I had to know the truth. I had been putting it off for far too long. I was definitely in denial. Blood roared and rushed in my ears as I bent down to pick up the paper. I unfolded it. And there it was. My tooth. That night I tried to leave. I gathered some of my things while Tristan was sleeping, trying desperately not to make a sound. I was halfway out the door when my vision tunneled. I collapsed. Something in me just gave out. My legs stopped working. I woke in bed. My wrists were bandaged. My stomach was empty. I looked up and saw Tristan looking down at me, feeding me broth from a spoon. He kissed my cheek. “You scared me,” he whispered. “Please don’t try that again. I can’t lose you. Not now.” He sounded hungry. The mask was slipping. The warmth was still there, but behind it was something darker, greedy, and malevolent. Any fear I had was washed away by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. I woke up later in the night, feverish and head spinning, too weak to move. I saw him, just barely, crouched beside the bed, whispering something I couldn’t hear. He was crying. And laughing maniacally. The next time I woke up, I couldn’t move. The room was cold and still. Pain radiated throughout my body, so intensely that it almost felt numb. I used what was left of my strength to look down. I screamed—or thought I did. But nothing came out. My arms and legs were gone. Even through my blurry vision, I could make out poorly done stitches where the rest of my limbs should’ve been. The skin around them was bright red and purple, and the wounds leaked pus. I let out a weak moan, fear and adrenaline giving me just enough energy. Tristan was there. Calm. His voice was low. “You’ve given me everything, Sam,” he whispered, brushing hair from my forehead. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I—I never meant to hurt you. I love you, you know that, right?” I couldn’t nod. I couldn’t do anything. He picked up the pliers. “I just want to be whole. Like you,” he said, trembling. “You took care of me when I was at my worst. You stood by me even when I pushed you away. You didn’t let what you’ve been through overcome you. You achieved what I never could. Healing.” He began removing my last two teeth, one by one. Each crack of enamel echoed like thunder in my skull. And still, something in me broke open. An epiphany. The edges of my mouth trembled and contorted into a deranged, toothless smile. My gums were bloody. Nerves exposed. I started to shake in delight. Adrenaline rushed through my body like it never had before. It didn’t matter how much he took anymore. In fact, if it was for the better of his health, I wanted him to. “Take more,” I wheezed, using the last of my strength to speak. “It’ll be okay, as long as you’re whole.” Credit: Siena Instagram Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.