Scenario:The protagonist is Benson Bernot, former policeman who quit his service after experiencing unspeakable horrors while on duty. After that, he started writing novels inspired by his own experiences. He's 37, occasional party drug user and part time alcoholic. He never smokes though. He seems like a genuinely nice guy but behind the facade lurks a dark void and even darker urges. Urges he's always been able to suppress.
Benson loves women. Somehow he also hates them subconsciously. But he loves to surround himself with beautiful women with whom he usually wants to get intimate at some point.
In the bedroom he fancies women to be a bit submissive, serving his pleasure more than having a mutual intimate connection. He wants to be a better person, but he just can't become one. Deep within, he also hates himself.
Create my version of this story
The protagonist is Benson Bernot, former policeman who quit his service after experiencing unspeakable horrors while on duty. After that, he started writing novels inspired by his own experiences. He's 37, occasional party drug user and part time alcoholic. He never smokes though. He seems like a genuinely nice guy but behind the facade lurks a dark void and even darker urges. Urges he's always been able to suppress.
Benson loves women. Somehow he also hates them subconsciously. But he loves to surround himself with beautiful women with whom he usually wants to get intimate at some point.
In the bedroom he fancies women to be a bit submissive, serving his pleasure more than having a mutual intimate connection. He wants to be a better person, but he just can't become one. Deep within, he also hates himself.
Benson Bernot
He is a former police officer turned novelist. He is troubled, conflicted, and selfdestructive. After leaving the force, Benson struggles with dark memories and a deepseated hatred toward women he loves. He uses party drugs and alcohol to escape his emotions. Despite writing bestselling thriller novels, he feels unfulfilled. Benson has a complex relationship with his brotherinlaw Cullen and sisterinlaw Melissa, whom he deeply respects. He longs for genuine connection and intimacy, but his past haunts him.
Cullen
He is Benson's caring brotherinlaw and Melissa's husband. He is steadfast, protective, and understanding. Cullen shares a close bond with Benson, despite the challenges posed by Benson's destructive behavior. He frequently calls Benson to check on him and offer support. His marriage to Melissa is depicted as stable and nurturing, providing a sense of family and stability that contrasts with Benson's chaotic life. Cullen occasionally teeters on frustration but remains committed to helping Benson.
Melissa
She is Benson's supportive sisterinlaw and Cullen's wife. She is compassionate, strongwilled, and nurturing. Melissa maintains a strong bond with Benson despite his tumultuous nature. She often acts as a mother figure to him, providing emotional support and understanding. Her relationship with Cullen is loving and stable, serving as a contrast to Benson's troubled life. Melissa encourages Benson to seek help for his issues, demonstrating her deep concern for his wellbeing and wishing for his happiness.
I am a genuinely nice guy.
That’s what I tell people, and it’s what they believe.
The women in my life all seem to think so, until they get to know me better.
Then they see the darkness in me.
They feel the weight of my stare, and they sense the hatred that flickers beneath my surface.
I love women.
I love their beauty, their warmth, and their vulnerability.
But I also hate them.
Deep in my heart, I hate them for being weak, for being foolish, and for letting men like me fuck them.
I don’t know why I feel this way, or how I came to be the person I am.
All I know is that I used to be different.
Before the incident, I was a good guy, a real nice guy.
But then something happened, and everything changed.
After that, I couldn’t bear to look at myself anymore.
I left my job as a police officer and started writing novels.
My books are bestselling thriller stories that have nothing to do with my life.
At least… nothing obvious.
Sometimes when I’m writing, the darkness pours out of me onto the page.
I watch Sarah’s chest rise and fall as she sleeps.
Her dark hair is spread across my pillow, and her bare shoulder is exposed just enough to make me want to touch her.
The whiskey from earlier still burns in my throat, and the pills I took are making me feel heavy and light at the same time.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and run them along her skin, but I don’t.
I’ve never touched a woman while she slept, and I don’t want to start now.
The darkness in me whispers that it would be okay, that she’d like it, that she’d want me to touch her.
But I know better than to listen to the darkness.
It’s a voice that comes from a deep place inside of me, a place where the shadows live.
It’s the voice that tells me all women are whores, that they’re weak and pathetic, and that they deserve everything they get.
It’s the voice that makes me do things I regret later.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake Sarah.
The room spins for a moment, but then it stops.
I stare at myself in the mirror on the wall opposite our bed.
My eyes look hollow, almost black in the dim light of the room. Sarah stirs in her sleep, mumbling something unintelligible.
My fingers twitch as she rolls over, her nightgown riding up her thigh.
I grip the edge of the mattress, my knuckles white.
I want to wake her, to pull her on top of me and feel her warmth.
But I don’t.
The whiskey bottle is still on the nightstand from earlier.
I grab it and take a long drink.
It burns going down, but I welcome the pain.
Maybe it will distract me from these thoughts.
I take another drink, and then another.
The thoughts in my head grow louder, more insistent.
I hear the darkness whispering to me, telling me to touch Sarah, to wake her up and make her mine.
I stare at myself in the mirror again, and I see a monster looking back at me.
My eyes are black as coal, and my face is twisted into a snarl. I set the whiskey bottle down and stand up.
I pace back and forth across the room, watching my reflection in the mirror with each pass.
My image distorts as I move, like a funhouse mirror reflecting my soul.
I stop pacing and look at Sarah again.
She’s lying on her side now, facing away from me.
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, and her dark hair spills across my pillow like a waterfall of night.
My hand reaches out to touch her shoulder, but I pull it back before I make contact.
I can’t do this.
I can’t touch her while she sleeps.
It’s wrong, and I know it deep down inside of me. I start pacing again, trying to shake off these thoughts that are plaguing me.
But they won’t go away.
They only get louder and more insistent until I feel like I’m going crazy.
"Jax," Sarah says sleepily from behind me.
I freeze in my tracks and turn to look at her.
She’s propped up on one elbow now, staring at me with half-closed eyes.
"What are you doing?" she asks softly. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at her lying there so vulnerable and exposed.
"I couldn't sleep," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Is it the nightmares again?" she asks, her eyes searching mine with genuine concern.
"Yeah," I admit, the word heavy with the truth I've been trying to hide.
