I am not bad: I am a good person that had a bad life. I wasn’t born a monster: My upbringing made me into a monster. I tell myself that constantly as I spent these last few weeks virtually alone; without friends, without family, without hopes or prayers. I am lost without a path to guide me towards providence, or at least far from where I ended up.
At one time, I was a straight ‘A’ honor roll student in a prestigious private Catholic school that aspired to be something better. Instead, I became an abomination: One of the statistics that most normal people would shake their heads with shame at. I am branded a terror: A murdering monstrosity that simply didn’t get the job done and will suffer because of the attempt. My final act was a dastardly one. I remain awake in my uncomfortable cot contemplating the roads I could have taken instead of that which I chose. I could have been an educator, a manager of a well-to-do organization; hell, I could have been a secretary-oh wait, I mean administrative assistant. Sure, being a woman in this perverse day and age, it’s pretty much a given one of those “men” I worked for would only permit my advancement had I permitted their advances onto me. I’m certain getting anywhere in this world has a lot more to do with how ambitious you are, and I’m not talking in the clerical, professional sense. Either way, I would have been taken advantage of and stowed away in an emotional prison rather than an actual physical one.
Ah, but why dwell on “could have”, “should have”, “what might have been” and “what never will be?” My father-my adoptive father, I point out animatedly-was my only true guardian set to protect me from all the terrible things this world can throw at a growing young woman. Conversely, what he did was so reprehensible, I have not the will to state it bluntly for it won’t illustrate the putrescent existence he bore as much as a thorough retelling can. He took my innocence, my childhood, my dreams, my companions: Everything from me. He made me a recluse bound to him eternally then betrayed every bit of trust I had in him, as well as humanity for that matter. He birthed a ravenous beast, teased it, starved it, then appeared surprised when he let it loose only to be attacked by it.
On the surface, my adoptive father was a great man; a pioneer even. He was a business mogul with a pure heart; an entrepreneur with strong Christian ethics. He had a wife of over thirty years, helped raise a well rounded son, and took a starving child under his loving arms. That was his alibi: The smiling, loving, religious face that he shined upon those that knew him outside the sanctuary of his home. After the lights were turned down, the doors were locked, and the neighbors were nestled safely in their beds, this other side came out of him; a side that I could only describe as wicked, if I may be allowed an old term.
Of course, since my fellow students and townsfolk only knew of my father’s philanthropy, I was labeled the wretch; the harlot. My surviving adoptive parent was the angel and I was the demon. I made his life miserable while he did all he could to correct my treacherous ways. It was all me and not him. He had done nothing but opened his heart to one that would just as quickly pull it out of his chest, stomp on it, and throw it in the trash. I was a repulsive pariah while he was everyone’s favorite guy. It was me that did him in and not him that lit the match to a keg he put together with his own unbridled vengeance.
What would he have to be vengeful for: How about the fact that he had his own share of loss? He was incapable of letting things go and being left with only me was a fate he had a tremendous amount of difficulty facing. He wanted to do right by someone special to him, and when that someone was no more, he was abandoned with a bundle he didn’t foresee the full responsibility for. Maybe I should have some pity for him, but I despise him too much for the ten years I spent under his warped domain to think that way. Besides, I’d rather take my chances in the afterlife debating with the Maker about why I should pass through the gates of heaven than face any judge that knew the man who took me in and saw where that got him in the end. The pieces I spread out in front of a human jury will not be put together no matter how hard I try to show them the way with my truth: The real truth. The man who adopted me has a nasty nature that will haunt my future until there is nothing left of me to haunt. I can picture that bearer of many of my lesser acceptable names that will pop up from time-to-time in this retelling enjoying every last bit of what awaits me.
If I had a psychologist he or she (I’d prefer she) would tell me it would be best to simply get it out in the open: Pen away until my swirling head’s content. You want to talk about what goes on “behind closed doors”, well I’ve got a story to tell you. Most just throw that expression around without grasping there being actual meaning to it. Now, let me give the traumatic, gory, disgusting details of what was happening behind my closed doors….