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Nothing he’d ever said then was manipulative, gaslighting, and none of it was now. She’d gaslighted him, before not getting her way and resorting to outright lying, manipulating those around her for support. What little he’d done that could be perceived as playing with her mind had never been undertaken for that reason, the opposite, in fact, and she knew it. Later malformed attempts at self-defense were just that, and she knew that too. But, in the ultimate irony, it was those who now told her his words were meant to be manipulative, those who told her not to listen, never to read, to forget what had happened, what she’d done that they did not know, who were gaslighting her, telling her what she wanted to hear to excuse herself. They were all dancing circles away from truth, all to placate each other, and he was their scapegoat. She knew it was all true, every word he said, even when seemingly contradictory, only requiring a shift in perspective, even when, though the accusations themselves may not have been exactly on point, her motives still fit the bill, even when mean. No, he had not and did not manipulated her. She had been the real untruthful one, and she had no remorse about it, no guilt, because it’s what she did to everyone, how she’d been raised to behave. Nothing touched her heart, nothing penetrated to her core because there was no core, no morality, no real values, just echoes of what other people wanted her to be. Her crime was known to her, and, since she would not own up to it, it would follow her and ruin everything she touched. It was all too stupid, needless, and the cowardly. They’d both been guilty of things, but she would never admit to her part and would die a liar to her own heart, alone even when surrounded, even when owned by a false love. She’d killed the real one.