Page 22 of Jackson
I knew exactly what was wrong with me. I needed to fight, to punish. In my mind I was fighting off my father. Not that he ever laid a finger on me; it was his words that had destroyedme.
From as young as I could remember, it was always the words. He’d lock us in a small room at the back of the house and just stand in front of me in the dark. His vileness spewed from his mouth. He hated me, I was a mistake that should have been aborted, I was a disgusting human being, and I’d ruined my mother. I was the child that should have died at birth; I wasweak.
His words flowed through my mind and I became that small boy again, scared of the dark, scared of his voice, and even more scared to tell anyone. I wished he’d beaten me; I could have handled that. Wounds heal, but his words had cut so deep they were embedded within me. I wanted to carve themout.
I’d started cutting when I was eleven years old. I recalled what triggered the need, and I could remember, distinctly, the pleasure and relief I gained from it. I’d been cutting myself for years. I could go a couple of months without it, if I had another means to gain that relief. But just lately, the time frame between each episode was gettingshorter.
We sat in silence for a while. “What happens when she finds out?” Iwhispered.
“When who findsout?”
“Summer. What happens when she finds out I killed herhusband?”
