of me. Then I kneel, a movement both familiar and foreign. Years of tradition pushing against years of neglect. I clasp my hands and lean on the coverlet, inhaling deeply, and try to figure out what the fuck I am doing. Then, I pray.
My prayer is short and focused. I pray for peace from my demons, that the urge to hurt others will leave my unworthy body. And I pray that if there is a little girl out there, a little Annie, I pray that God will keep her the fuck away from the man named Ralph.
I used to be religious, our family attending church on Sundays like clockwork. Mother was the leading force in that, my father anxious for the service to be over so that he could head back to football and weekend projects. If Mother did struggle, as I do with my demons, I often wonder if that is why she went to church. If it was in an attempt to purify her soul, to destroy the devil inside with a higher power.
I have tried everything else; Jesus is on my short list of ignored possibilities. I just can’t go that route. I spoke to a pastor while living at my grandparents’. He told me that my mother was in hell and that she would be there for all eternity for her sins. He didn’t understand that despite her actions toward my family, despite the fact that she took away everything good in my life, I love her. She is my mother, and one night of hell doesn’t take away the seventeen years of memories. Hearing his words, spoken with so much certainty…I didn’t go back to that church. It was hard enough to erase the image of my mother burning in hell without seeing his face again.
I understand that I shouldn’t base my opinions of God on one redheaded country pastor. But my mother’s blood runs through my soul. If God was how she kept straight, kept normal, all of those years, what caused her fall? What if I gain control of my life, fall in love, have a family, create the perfect life, and then stumble—the way she did? It is better how it is now—where I have no one to hurt, no babies to nurture into future psychopaths. When I look at that possibility, at the course her life took…I don’t want to be normal unless I know that I am at no risk to others. I can’t afford to stumble, to take away others’ happiness.
So I don’t turn to God. But I do believe in His existence. And I do believe that some people He can help. Maybe He can help Annie, maybe He can keep her safe from the monsters that roam our world.
He can’t help me. Not in the way that I need to be helped. I don’t want a salve or whatever form of support my mother received. I’ve seen one family destroyed. I don’t plan on repeating that trend.
CHAPTER 33
“IT’S BEEN A good day. Two good days, actually.” I speak into my cell while sitting cross-legged on my pink bed, my laptop open before me.
“Tell me about them.”
I hope he’s naked. I hope Dr. Derek is sitting at his desk, a big fat cock in his hand, and he is stroking it while talking to me. I spent twenty minutes two hours ago talking to an attorney who dispensed legal advice on the phone while watching me, his orgasm barely slowing the flow of intelligent prose. The image sticks with me, popping up when I hear Dr. Derek breathe, hear a soft sigh as he shifts in his seat. These are the kinds of thoughts I need to avoid, especially if I want to continue down the path of trying to right my axis and fix my brain. But it is hard to spend a whole day engaged in sexual activity and then pick up the phone, hear that smooth, sexy voice, and not image the cock attached to his body.
“Deanna?”
“Hmm?” I answer absentmindedly, posting a camming screenshot to Twitter.
“Tell me about your good days.”
“Oh.” I close the laptop screen and focus on his voice, pushing aside the image of thick meat surrounded by strong hands. “No urges, no Hannibal Lecter fantasies all day yesterday, last night, and so far today. And I was up late last night, till almost one.”
“What’d you eat for
My prayer is short and focused. I pray for peace from my demons, that the urge to hurt others will leave my unworthy body. And I pray that if there is a little girl out there, a little Annie, I pray that God will keep her the fuck away from the man named Ralph.
I used to be religious, our family attending church on Sundays like clockwork. Mother was the leading force in that, my father anxious for the service to be over so that he could head back to football and weekend projects. If Mother did struggle, as I do with my demons, I often wonder if that is why she went to church. If it was in an attempt to purify her soul, to destroy the devil inside with a higher power.
I have tried everything else; Jesus is on my short list of ignored possibilities. I just can’t go that route. I spoke to a pastor while living at my grandparents’. He told me that my mother was in hell and that she would be there for all eternity for her sins. He didn’t understand that despite her actions toward my family, despite the fact that she took away everything good in my life, I love her. She is my mother, and one night of hell doesn’t take away the seventeen years of memories. Hearing his words, spoken with so much certainty…I didn’t go back to that church. It was hard enough to erase the image of my mother burning in hell without seeing his face again.
I understand that I shouldn’t base my opinions of God on one redheaded country pastor. But my mother’s blood runs through my soul. If God was how she kept straight, kept normal, all of those years, what caused her fall? What if I gain control of my life, fall in love, have a family, create the perfect life, and then stumble—the way she did? It is better how it is now—where I have no one to hurt, no babies to nurture into future psychopaths. When I look at that possibility, at the course her life took…I don’t want to be normal unless I know that I am at no risk to others. I can’t afford to stumble, to take away others’ happiness.
So I don’t turn to God. But I do believe in His existence. And I do believe that some people He can help. Maybe He can help Annie, maybe He can keep her safe from the monsters that roam our world.
He can’t help me. Not in the way that I need to be helped. I don’t want a salve or whatever form of support my mother received. I’ve seen one family destroyed. I don’t plan on repeating that trend.
CHAPTER 33
“IT’S BEEN A good day. Two good days, actually.” I speak into my cell while sitting cross-legged on my pink bed, my laptop open before me.
“Tell me about them.”
I hope he’s naked. I hope Dr. Derek is sitting at his desk, a big fat cock in his hand, and he is stroking it while talking to me. I spent twenty minutes two hours ago talking to an attorney who dispensed legal advice on the phone while watching me, his orgasm barely slowing the flow of intelligent prose. The image sticks with me, popping up when I hear Dr. Derek breathe, hear a soft sigh as he shifts in his seat. These are the kinds of thoughts I need to avoid, especially if I want to continue down the path of trying to right my axis and fix my brain. But it is hard to spend a whole day engaged in sexual activity and then pick up the phone, hear that smooth, sexy voice, and not image the cock attached to his body.
“Deanna?”
“Hmm?” I answer absentmindedly, posting a camming screenshot to Twitter.
“Tell me about your good days.”
“Oh.” I close the laptop screen and focus on his voice, pushing aside the image of thick meat surrounded by strong hands. “No urges, no Hannibal Lecter fantasies all day yesterday, last night, and so far today. And I was up late last night, till almost one.”
“What’d you eat for
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