Intrigued. I always had an issue reaching people. Intrigued was often the only thing I could be. I attempted to cut a girl’s finger off with safety scissors in the first grade. I was quickly taken out of school and moved several hours away. Mother always defended me, like nothing I could ever do would disappoint her. Father, however, it’s like he saw it in my eyes. My earliest memories were filled with his disappointing empty gaze.
I got through those years. Most were spent alone. I worked hard. Without others, I had a lot of time to work. To better my skills. I learned to pass. My mom spent a lot of time teaching me. Many quiet moments. She would care so deeply about curating me to survive. Making me normal. We would spend many quiet moments. Until the back door would open and fear would fill her eyes.
As the years passed, my mother weakened. Her bruises stopped healing, and when she got sick it didn’t go away. Only worsening, only taking her. I didn’t stop him in time. I worked so hard to get better. We did. She told me not to. But when she died, there was little reason. So I killed him, I hung him from the banister, and I wrote a suicide note.
His money was left to my mom, and all of hers was left to me. I left; I found good work. I found a good apartment. But the voice wasn’t gone.
The rage never left.