Love is... Just another word
I was seven years old. Sitting at the dinner table. Watching my mother and father shout words of which they banned me from saying. Confrontations. Watching each plate fall to the ground. Watching each smile fade away.
One day my father grabbed my mother by the hair and pulled her upstairs.
I followed them, jolting, thinking I could prevent what was about to happen.
The door quickly closed and as I had a fading click, I realized my father locked it.
I pressed my Ill-forgotten manners against the door trying to hear what was happening on the other side.
I heard the dieing cries coming from my mother and the whipping of either a belt or one of dad's leather jackets. It obviously had to be a belt. Blood on her back. She started wearing make-up to hide the pain--to make me feel better.
I was twenty three years old. I was home alone. It was drizzling outside. There was a knock on the door. It was my cousin. He told me my parents called him over to discuss somethings.
We were on the couch and he started touching me, in all the wrong places. I acted like I wasn't scared. I just laughed it off and he pretty much forced himself on me. He told me to stop crying. He told me to mourn. He slapped me and told me that I enjoyed it.He left me meeting my parents and I just sat on the bed, feeling dirty and disgusting. He made a sadistic smile at me. Tears welling in my eyes. Unforgettable. Unforgivable.
I am twenty eight years old. I killed my mother. I killed my joy. For a candy apple.
I am neither looking for sympathy in this letter nor understanding. I am just trying to let whoever this is know why I deserve what I did.
After abuse
After depression
After rape and molestation
After murder
And now
After tears
After torture
After suicide
It's what I deserve