Page 4 of Bitter Truths

“She . . . she told me I was filthy.”

Don’t touch me. Keep your filthy hands away.

“Why do you think your mother said you were filthy?”

“Why? Because she was mentally ill.”

“And?”

Clenching my fist, I raise my burning gaze to him, fighting the vise squeezing the air from my burning lungs. “Because Iam. . . filthy.”

“Are you, Griffin? Are you filthy? Or did your mother transfer her neuroses onto you?”

“I guess, maybe.” I shrug.

“Maybe?”

“I am a monster. I don’t know if I was before.”

Intellectually, I know she was ill. You don’t go to the hospital as many times as she did if you’re not. But I also know that what burns at my sternum and bubbles below my skin is exactly what she hated about me.

I am a monster. The question is, did Mother create me? Or did I do that all by myself?

“So, when you met . . . H, is it?”

Nodding, I contain the flinch, but hearing even just her initial said out loud, here in this fucking room of horror, twists my insides.

She’s too pure for this, for me. I knew it then, just as I know it now. If I were a better person, I’d walk. But I’ve never claimed to be good. Ever.

“Right, so H. When you met her, something changed?”

“Yes. I changed.”

“How so?”

“I wanted to be the person H saw.” What I don’t say is that I wanted to be anybody but what Mother insisted I was.I can’t stand the sight of you.

“What did H see?”

My lips curl, and I resist the urge to rub my sternum again. It fucking burns.

“Something that wasn’t real.”

“How do you know it wasn’t real?”

“Because I’m not fucking beautiful.”

“Maybe you are?”

If you’d just be quiet, Griffin, I wouldn’t have to do this.

“No.”

“What are you then?”

“Filthy.”

“Filthy? Griffin, if you’re dirty, can’t you make yourself clean?”

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