Quotes About Betrayal

A la hora de la verdad, la gente a la que uno consideraba «amigos íntimos» no era necesariamente aquella con la que se podía contar.

Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.

It's important to remember that teenagers form tribes with the express purpose of creating a group that doesn't include adults, so going outside of their group to get help from an adult—even for life-threatening behavior—can feel like a huge betrayal.

It wasn't that strangers couldn't hurt you. It was simply that the people you loved could do it so much better.

Everyone thinks that. That's the reason people cheat on their spouses, because this new relationship is just so exciting and new.

I remember his face when my father said that he no longer had private health cover, how quickly he left the house, how he dropped his unctuous demeanor like a brick. He sent him straight to the hospital in an NHS ambulance and left without saying goodbye.

Never marry a woman. They might look good, but they destroy you.

My father's going to take everything you own and then break your life.

The things that happened behind the closed door of that house were appalling, and like a coward, I did a flit. I left them to it.

And she knows him well enough to know that he would be humiliated if he found out about her affair with Scarlett and that that humiliation would spill over into anger and that he is strong and he is already only one flash away from hurting her, constantly.

I feel – Jesus. I feel like I don't know you, Rachel. I feel like I married a fucking stranger.

you. We didn't have sex for the last ten days of our holiday, you said you thought you'd married a fucking stranger, and now you're acting like none of that ever happened. You're … you're … offering me wine and … and stirring things. I just don't understand. I don't understand what's happening

She told us all these lies about her, that she used to be a prostitute, brought tricks into the house, that she used to beat her and starve her and of course we were small so we believed her. But then our dad told us it wasn't true, that Mum was just jealous of Grandma because she'd been with Dad before her.

You. You and your fucking "tie me up" bullshit. You and your other guys. Guys who've done that to you. Every time I shut my eyes, there they are. Lined up. And I can't, I cannot get them out of my head, Rachel. You put them there. Bunch of fucking creeps.

What you were getting into?' 'Yeah. Damaged goods.' Rachel felt a punch to the back of her gut at these words and the burn of bile at the base of her throat. 'I'm sorry?' 'Yeah. I guess I was duped by the English accent. Fooled into thinking it somehow equated with class. Yet again.

But it's terrifying to think that I never knew her at all. Not even a tiny bit.

can't believe you, Lules. You binned me off because I kissed my ex, and all the while you've got a secret fucking baby.' Tallulah throws

She thought of how she'd contorted herself and her habits and her behaviour for twenty years to be a person who would not be raped, and now she had been raped in the place where she was meant to be safe, by the person who was meant to protect her. She felt the artifice of the last twenty years of her life, the pointlessness and futility of it. She might as well have taken the shortcut, worn the tarty top, flirted with the shady guy. She might as well have lived her life free.

Yes. It's terrible. Only slightly more terrible than a husband who doesn't come home for a dinner that his wife has cooked for him and spends the whole night out somewhere in his work clothes.

But you loved her, right?' 'Of course. And I still do. But it's terrifying to think that I never knew her at all. Not even a tiny bit.

So here's me, working my-fucking-self to death, day in day out, never spend a penny on anything, not a fucking penny. Single-handedly trying to get us a place to live, and you're just going to the pub with some slag called Keziah who I've never even fucking heard of.

Wearing nice underwear. Ready for sex. But that wasn't what he wanted. He raped me in his kitchen. He pushed me into broken glass. Look.' Lucy pulls up her T-shirt to show Rachel the small livid scar that is still there, over a year later. 'I was bleeding and in pain and he kept raping me and there was this knife. The knife I'd been using to slice the tomatoes.

She thinks, You didn't see the look he gave me just now on the stairs. You don't know how he looks at me when you're not in the room; the way his voice sets hard like stone, his eyes bore through me like lasers. You really don't know.

She tries to claw back the stolen half-hour, but her adrenaline is pumping again; her husband went somewhere last night and has woken up in his friend's flat and doesn't know what happened in between. Her husband, who has a career and a mortgage and two children to think about. Her husband, who is forty-five.