Books About Stockholm Syndrome Novels & Stories

Maria’s worry was valid. Maximo had only been using me to pass time. Maybe he was bored and needed a new plaything to give him entertainment. And I was there, his new prisoner. Or maybe he was just a sadist and a monster who sucked the life out of people bit by bit until they had nothing else to live for. Lock me up like a prisoner and treat me like a princess until I had no choice but to fall for him. Stockholm syndrome. Was that how he planned to torture me?

He would have to prove his loyalty to me as time went on. Even though most of the women here seemed happy and I didn’t see any signs of physical abuse, I knew there was more going on under the surface than what I was seeing. My instincts told me that some of these women were brainwashed. We were clearly being persuaded into having sex with men and that was sick enough, but I was starting to think there was even more going on. Like they were suffering some form of Stockholm Syndrome and were told that they should be here over and over again until they believed it.

“As much as I know, Boss cherished you so much. I don’t think a lot of scientists have met you personally. Although, I heard that Caramel used to be your personal scientist or whatnot.” “Yeah.” “So it’s true.” A Stockholm syndrome, he gulped shallowly. “Correct. I have a fucking Stockholm syndrome. I loved my abuser and adored him too fucking much.” Hades blew out the hot air from his mouth. It wasn’t his intention to mock Shadow’s mental health. Living in a chaotic life, he knew that as much. Their mental state could deteriorate to the lowest level and such syndromes were bound to appear. The heavy atmosphere struck between them. Both of them were thinking about the past and both of them ha

That the man who’d bruised me—physically and mentally—had somehow found a way to make me care. I glanced at the flowers near my feet, their vibrant reds and yellows seeming almost too cheerful, mocking me. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome," I muttered. The thought tasted like ash in my mouth, but it wasn’t far-fetched. I’d heard the stories: captives falling for their captors, victims finding comfort in their abusers. It was twisted, but it happened. And wasn’t that what this was?

She had to push forward even though she had found no evidence that they were afraid of her; she knew they were afraid of her though. "Oh, and here I was thinking that all of the staff that lived and worked here were afraid of me because I went to jail for killing a person," she said, her eyes glued to them so she could see their reaction. She almost burst into a burst of laughter as she saw the scared, confused, and surprised expressions on their faces.

Someone like him doesn’t end up with someone like me. He ends up with women like that. With their glossy hair and old-money background. I stood up and yanked my hoodie off. I felt like clawing my skin off. Like ripping my chest open to let the pressure out. My hands trembled as I paced the room, trying to breathe. It’s Stockholm syndrome. That’s what it is. It has to be. That’s the only thing that makes sense. I was kidnapped. I’ve been drugged, beaten, isolated, touched by hands that didn’t care about my screams. I was locked in places with no light for weeks. I was auctioned like a fucking product.

Wasn’t this evidence of that? This strange emotion no, it was not emotion. Only confusion. I felt confused, but who wouldn’t be if they were me? Isolated from family and under the care more like under the thumb of Damian spears, I needed him for everything. Every fucking thing. And that was why I had any feeling for him whatsoever. Maybe it was a form of Stockholm Syndrome. I mean, this may notnbe a traditional kidnapping, but it wasn’t like I was here by choice. Not my choice, anyway. I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot stream. I wanted to scrub his touch from me. Wanted to scrub the memory of my reaction to him from my mind.

He was a real man, after all, with more visceral emotions than she had ever felt. In the fateful garden, neither of them spoke before he disappeared. Even worse than all of that was how much she just wanted to see him again. If his arms found her again, she would never allow them to open again. He was warm and reassuring. The knowledge that they were under the same sky only helped her raw longing so much. She chuckled as she remembered the book her teacher had suggested for her last book report, Stolen by Lucy Christopher. It was about something called Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe that was what was wrong with Elle, she wondered musingly.

My desire for human contact brought me to this point. Two words often circulated in my mind but I refused to used them for my condition. Stockholm Syndrome. A part of me knew what I had for my husband wasn’t real. And I wanted to kill that part. This was real life. Not a movie or a novel. This was real. I was real. He was real. Our connection was real. I didn’t know why I was still alive. If any other person were in my place, they would have killed themselves so why wasn’t I dead?

I don't know where it started but I am now looking at Clive in a different light. Is it bad to feel secure in the words of your abductor? Perhaps it really is. Have I gone totally insane, or is the influence of my past self slowly coming back to me? Is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like? However, even though I know that this is bad, I can’t seem to stop either.