Stockholm Syndrome Book の小説・ストーリー

I didn't want to turn into a nutcase of Stockholm Syndrome. Shooting up to my feet, I veered to the history section of the library. If some beast like Jaxon said really existed out here, then there should be records of it or at least records of rumors. My hand rose, the tip of my index tracing the spines of the books as I passed them. Three shelves down, and I still couldn't find anything that could spark some interest in me. Leaning against the shelf behind me, I sighed when something caught my eyes on the top row. A single book lied there, cursive golden letters danced on its black leather spine.

I think it was called Stockholm syndrome. “Garrett, Ethan, please excuse the way I will behave. I have to shut down my emotions and become the cold-hearted Josie once again.” I linked them both as the pack house came into view and out the front stood the four people that had caused my life to become a living hell.

“What are you three doing? You are officers of the law. How can you allow a thug to threaten you?” The only quiet police officer shrugs. “But she just said she wasn't kidnapped.” “Stockholm syndrome. Don't you get it? She has gotten so accustomed to being a hostage that she thinks he truly cares for her.” “You are sick, Matthew! I regret marrying you. That's if I really did, by the way! You are the worst husband. You don't even love me. If you did, you wouldn't be doing this right now.” My throat hurts, but I continue to scream, “I can feel it in my guts. You want to take me away just because of the money Dad left me! Thank goodness I didn't sign those papers. And I will never sign them!”

I did feel caged-in but also loved, cherished, and protected. 'Is this what Stockholm syndrome looks like?'

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.

I turn my face to the side and observe his stoic profile as if he were just adding one plus one and not being a first-rate jerk. "What would it be?" - Curiosity beats me. "Syndrome of Stockholm." I support my elbows against my legs, I feel guilty for realizing that the screams ceased, the moment I heard the voice of this woman something strange happened, I do not know how to deal with it, I do not know how much less what fate I can give her in the middle of a conflict. If we’re being invaded then this is the worst time to have someone inside my house, and as hateful as it is to admit, I don’t want her to be a target.

Yet, the emptiness was deafening. One evening, he wandered into the kitchen. A half-finished bottle of an expensive Scotch that Caius favored sat on the counter. Without thinking, Lynn poured a finger into a glass. The liquid was smooth, smoky, and burned a familiar path down his throat. It was Caius's taste, a flavor that had become strangely associated with the man's presence. He stood there, sipping the whiskey, looking out at the city lights, and a treacherous, unwelcome thought crossed his mind: What is he doing right now? He shook his head, disgusted. He was romanticizing his jailer. This was Stockholm syndrome. This was weakness. He drained the glass and put it in the sink with a shar

I went into one of the open rooms and surprisingly, it was some sort of study/library. “I didn’t know psychopaths could read.” I muttered to myself, and maybe he didn’t actually read, maybe he was one of those many pretentious people who liked to look like they read a lot and just let the books collect dust. I walked in further and took a look at the clutter of books on the shelves – all boring, I realised. My face fell when I kept coming across books that were written in Italian and the rest was just government nonsense. If I couldn’t find a book to read, I would find me a pen and paper. It had been years since I drew something, and I was definitely rusty, but it could keep me busy amidst t

See the clothes lines strung with linens in the breeze, hear the music played on the corners…… “But Sister Agatha says we have to take the good with the bad,” Chapter 1.31 Stockholm Syndrome, Xoxo Nyx

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.