“Do you know what I thought? That it was magic, that you had cast a spell on me, that you had secretly, treacherously bewitched me, spellbound me with your eyes and your smile. That’s what I thought. But now I understand. I desire to fall under your spell.
And the reality turned out to be more awful. You didn’t cast any spells on me, you didn’t use any charms. Why? Why didn’t you bewitch me? If it had been magic it would all be so simple and easy. I could’ve succumbed to your power and I’d be happy. But this… I don’t know what’s happening to me…
I’m so ashamed. I’m ashamed of what I’m feeling, it’s like an accursed infirmity, like malaria, like being unable to breathe… I always thought it was a beautiful and noble state of mind, noble and dignified, even if it makes one unhappy. And it is organic, meanly and heartbreakingly organic. Someone who is ill or who has drunk poison might feel like this. Because, like someone who has drunk poison, one is prepared to do anything in exchange for an antidote. Anything. Even be humiliated.
Yes, I feel humiliated, humiliated by having confessed everything to you, disregarding the dignity that demands that one suffers in silence. But I couldn’t have behaved any differently. I’m powerless. At your mercy, like someone who’s bedridden.
I know I ought to be grateful to you. But I’m not grateful to you. And I’m ashamed of it. For I hate your silence. I hate you. For staying silent. For not lying.”
~Essi “Little Eye” Daven – “Sword of Destiny”, Andrzej Sapkowski