Manipulative - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was a magician. Not the kind of man that can tell what was your card, or make appear roses from his sleeves. No, his magic was truly special, and so malevolent I can't think about it without wanting to cry again, like the thousand times I did back in that time.
His power wasn't unique, but a really good one to have: he could bend and sculpture with his words until I was almost believing that I was breathing just because he allowed me to do it; he could make up every reality into a favourable situation for him, making everybody else guilty for every sin, even his own mistakes.
The problem was, he didn't use his powers for good things. Well, I guess they were good for him. But for the rest, and specially for me, these tricks only made us be the villain in his perfect story where he was the misunderstood hero waiting for a chance to prove his worth. But we weren't the bad guys, no. He wasn't, either. Or maybe yes, I don't know anymore.
He manipulated me into believing so many things that now I don't know what's reality anymore. How can I be sure now? I trusted him with my life, and there were so many lies that maybe I won't be able to distinguish the truth even if it hits me like a lightning.
Those stories, those worlds... how fucked up he left me that I miss those tricks and lies, that sometimes I find myself wishing them to come back so I could live again in that strange place that was his personal Wonderland.
Steve was there like a shadow until you needed him. Then suddenly he was unavailable. His ready smile was only for those who gave freely and didn't require any help in return. Once their personal crisis was over he'd re-emerge from the crowds and re-insert himself into the group, cracking the jokes everyone loved and paying them for their company in his favourite “currency”- gossip. He knew the dirt on everyone, including you, and if you weren't his buddy he'd be free with that information to whoever his new friends were. With him or against him, it's how it was. I chose to hate him and keep him closer than a lover; the best friend I'd choose to eat first in any survival situation.
Gina flicked her hand lazily to signal the server should leave; her bling-bling platinum bangles shifting and clinking to exaggerate the dismissal. Then she returned her arms to their resting position; elbows on the well-shined table and manicured nails almost touching her lips. The bangles fell to the soft skin part way down her arm and lay glinting in the afternoon rays, bright against her brown skin. There they would rest until she had finished drawing information out of the imbecile before her. The man was trying too hard, laughing too easily, uncomfortable in a suit that had a new sheen. She on the other hand underplayed her part, coy and a little slow to warm. Let him feel like he's in charge, that he earned my trust. He was easier to steer than her new Mercedes. She remained girlish, innocent. Beneath her mask of delight and interested listening she was planning this death and the disposal of his body in the same manner most people reserved for write a list of household chores.