My mother tells me that sometimes I scare her.
My father was an abusive man, discharged from the military due to an injury to the head which made him… lose almost any form of self control.
She says when I’m angry, brooding, pent up and the like… that I make his faces and that I sound like him or act like him.
I’ve done horrid things before I knew everything about how f***** in the head my father was. Some of the things he did included: throwing a puppy against a fridge and breaking it’s back – keeping it in a trash bag in the attic and lying to my mother about it running away, beating her and violently pressing sexual interactions upon her, destroying furniture and items in fits of rage, becoming an addict to cocaine and alcohol, drugging my mom for the fun of watching her struggle to function around the house – unaware of what she had ingested, and cheating many times.
There have been urges in my stomach and chest that rile up of a fog of discomfort, make me boil.
I’ve picked moths apart, starting at the eyes with needles. Burning mice on the end of strings to watch them writhe. Sat and watched as a rat thrashed on a glue trap, so desperately trying to free itself that it began tearing the skin from it’s body during the struggle, then smashed it’s head with a rock. Dissected frogs before they were dead by nailing their flippers to a board and using shaving razors. Carved myself and written words on my body, picked and stabbed holes in my gums with needles during fits of anxiety. Masturbated to animated porn of people being raped and beaten since the real life things aren’t… up to par with what I like.
When I was twelve I use to pinch at the inner parts of my dog’s thighs and rip out tufts of fur to watch her flinch, hear her yelp, or instigate a fight. It was funny and I’d have been laughing so hard I was in tears. I’d set her in front of our dishwasher on the tiles and drop it open on her – watching her drop to her belly to avoid being hit and tremble in fear of the loud sound. As she found her feet, I’d slide her back under and drop it again. And Again. And again. Chortling at the sound of her claws scittering on the tiles in a frantic rush to try and dash free.
I’d feel bad afterward.
I’d hug her and kiss her, hold her shaking body of fuzz in my arms and nuzzle against the back of her head, cooing and telling her it was okay. She smelled like oatmeal.
When I was thirteen, I subscribed to several sites that documented car crashes and violent deaths, gore and injuries. I enjoy watching someone dig an infected cyst out of another’s skin. I took a liking to BDSM and find it erotic when the sub is sobbing hysterically and screaming in the end.
Words cannot express the guilt I feel knowing that these things satisfy me.
My current partner knows nothing of this past.
All he knows is that mother has taken out her anger upon me in the past few years, seeming to resent my existence as a living reminder of the man who made me. She is a hoarder and our house reeks of dog piss and shit. Clothes and trash litter the floors and maggots writhe wherever food has fallen or been set aside to rot.
Mother blew a lot of our money on frivolous things, such as an extra flatscreen, $30 movies sets, a surround sound system,and upgrades for her car.
Social workers have come since I reported mother in December. We got into a fist fight in the kitchen when she snapped and came at me because I had snapped and told her to calm the f*** down while she was ranting about how I accidentally changed her tv channel.
I wound up on the floor.
I bit her ankle.
She left bruises on my gut and sides, as well as arms and face. But now, when social workers are around, she plays it like she’s the happiest woman in the world.
I am 16.
And yes, I’m working on getting therapy.