PLAYBOY

I once loved a woman so deeply I had almost nothing left of myself. I gave her everything, only to discover she was married with a child. She cheated on me—my first love, my first sexual experience.

Because of that, I struggle to love women. I see most of them not as treasures to cherish, but as toys to discard when I tire of them.

It's easy to get the women I want. I'm one of the smartest students on campus, well-known, and, most importantly, good-looking.

Each conquest, each tear I cause, strengthens me, boosts my confidence.

Today, Chloe lies beside me in bed. I've just used her body, and I'm already bored. Her face, her skin, her breasts, her vagina—all are tiresome. Her body is dull.

I smirk as she touches my chest, meeting her gaze.

"I love you, Liam. I gave you everything, my body included. Please don't leave me," she whispers softly.

I smile, smoothing her hair. "You're beautiful, Chloe, but I don't think we're right for each other."

She sits up, astonishment etched on her face. "What do you mean, Liam?"

I hold her shoulder, speaking face-to-face. "I don't want you anymore. Let's break up."

She slaps me. Tears stream down her face—a film for my eyes only. I grab my shirt and keys, about to leave, when I feel a weight on my leg. She's hugging it, naked and crying.

"I'm begging you, please don't leave me. I love you so much, Liam," she pleads, tears streaming.

I smile, removing her arms. "You don't deserve a man like me. I'm not mentally stable."

She goes on a rampage on Facebook. Her posts attack me. I think it's over until I get home and find her in my living room, crying.

"What the f*** are you doing here, Chloe?!" I yell.

She kisses me passionately, but I push her away, sending her sprawling to the floor. She cries loudly, almost hysterically. She's saying something, but her sobs make it unintelligible.

"How many times do I have to tell you I don't want you anymore? I never loved you!" I shout.

She continues to cry and mumble. I sigh and sit on the sofa. Her cries echo, threatening to deafen me, but I feel no guilt.

After a few minutes, she stops crying, stands, and faces me, looking unhinged. She mumbles something incomprehensible.

"I-I l-love… you m-more than m-myself. I g-gave up my b-body for you. I gave y-you e-everything, but you still couldn't love me. If you can't love me, starting t-tonight… if I can't make you love me, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life," she whispers.

The gradual sound of a blade slicing through the air is like ice water. I freeze as she slowly cuts her own neck, her expression emotionless. I see the skin tear, the blood spurt.

Her blood splashes my face as her body falls, and my vision darkens.

ONE MONTH LATER

The incident changes my life. I lose friends; women rarely approach me.

I look at my phone: 10:45 PM, JULY 01, 2023. Time flies. I never thought Chloe would kill herself in front of me.

"Make me regret… my ass!" I chuckle, drinking until I'm numb and fall asleep.

I wake up, grab my keys, and drive to the library to study for my exam. While studying, I see a woman walking past. Tall, curvy, with dark hair, glasses, and a simple white polo shirt. She looks plain but exudes a powerful aura.

Instantly, I see my next target.

Step one: I talk to her, get her Facebook. I chat with her daily to make her attached. We have classes on the same campus. She's funny.

I tell her I want her to be my girlfriend; I'm straightforward. To my surprise, she says yes—she's also straightforward. Things move quickly. I'm happy; she makes me laugh, but she never kisses me.

Step two: I try to be cold, hoping she'll chase me. It fails; I'm the one messaging her.

Our relationship lasts three months. My usual tricks don't work. I crave her body, especially after she sends me sexy pictures. I try for more pictures, but she refuses. I try to take her to a hotel, but she refuses.

She gives me the impression I can have her, then backs off. I feel like she's playing me. I'm desperate.

One night, she agrees to come to my condo. I don't waste time. As soon as we're inside, I grab her neck, kiss her, and push her onto the bed. I quickly remove her top and kiss her chest.

"Damn, baby… you're so sexy," I whisper. Then I stop. She's staring at me intently.

"What?" I ask, astonished.

She just stares, teasingly. I lie down, and she sits on the edge of the bed, still staring.

"Hey, stop staring at me!" I say. She laughs.

"Liam, you're very handsome… but I don't think we're suitable for each other."

I'm shocked. My face burns.

"W-What do you m-mean?" I stammer.

She stands, puts on her top, and grabs her purse. She kisses my cheek, whispering, "I'm not mentally stable. I think you deserve someone else. I'm… problematic."

I chuckle. "So you were just playing me?"

She laughs. "Oh, darling! I'm in your playground, right? And yes, I know. In this era, you're either a player or the game, Liam."

She scrunches her nose. "And I don't want to be the game…" she whispers.

I'm dumbfounded. I can't believe she played with my feelings. I look in the mirror, feeling insecure. Am I ugly?

"F***ing ego!!" I shout, grabbing a bottle of alcohol and drinking until I cry. I miss her, and my surroundings darken.

I open my eyes to a white room, hospital equipment attached to me. My family is there, shouting happily. I wonder why I'm here, but my mind is on Erica. What she did hurts. I realize I liked her; she gave me peace.

"I need to see Erica. I'll prove I'm not a player anymore. I'll still accept her, even though she played me," I say, slowly getting up.

"Who's Erica?" my brother asks, astonished. My family looks bewildered.

I tell them everything. My mother touches my cheeks, worried.

"July 1st, after Chloe's suicide in your condo, you got drunk, went to the library, and crashed your car," she sighs. "Liam, wake up. It's September 6th. You've been in a coma for two months. There is no Erica. She's not real!"

I have a flashback of the truck collision. If Erica isn't real, what about my memories with her? I don't want to believe it.

"No… Erica is real! I-I e-even brought h-her to my condo yesterday!"

Silence falls. My family looks concerned, showing me papers proving my months-long hospital stay.

I struggle to speak. The silence is broken by Chloe's mother, emotionless, barely looking at me. She hands me a paper. My hands tremble as I open it.

I LOVE YOU, LIAM. I KNOW I'M DEAD WHEN YOU READ THIS. I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING. I HOPE SOME WOMAN COMES INTO YOUR LIFE TO GIVE YOU BACK EVERYTHING YOU DID TO WOMEN. IF I CAN'T MAKE YOU LOVE ME, MAYBE I CAN MAKE YOU REGRET IT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

"That was Chloe's last letter before she committed suicide," she says coldly.

She laughs sadly. "We all know Erica isn't real. Whoever she is, you deserve what she did to you. You know the worst? Your feelings were toyed with by a woman who doesn't even exist. Because…PLAYBOYS DESERVE TO GET PLAYED."

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are with the product of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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