I hate my mother. She is a strong woman, and devoted to her family. She is a great worker and cares a great deal for her clientele. She is a very knowledgeable person and believes that education is the greatest of foundations for children. My father brought out the worst in her. No one ever saw the worst of her, except me.
I am not as physically strong as my brothers. I wasn’t as athletic. I wasn’t outdoors as much. I liked to read and use my imagination a little more than they did. I was smarter than my brothers and sisters, and a lot more quiet. Why would any of that be important? My mother took out her frustrations with my father, out on me. She knew I couldn’t fight back, and since I was so quiet, I probably wouldn’t talk about it. She was too busy being perfect around my sisters as to taint her perfect example of how to be “a lady,” than to show them what I saw – and felt.
My father was a great man. Very highly respected member of society. He was funny. He was charming. And all the women knew it. Most of all, so did my mother. She would see him talking or socializing with so many different women, she would often storm off to the house. She would look for someone to vent her rage to, and there would be no one to console her. Only me… alone in my room, studying, minding my own business… She said that I reminded her of her father. And she wouldn’t spare the rod. I couldn’t admit it to my father, or she would beat me worse. I was a prisoner in my own home. Beaten for no reason. She called them all whores. I was beaten constantly… because of whores.
When I got older, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I worked so hard in my studies so that I could be noticed by some institution as a reason to leave. I was lucky for the Cheliax Medical Academy to become aware of me. My father was so proud of me. He never wanted for me to join some military and kill or be killed. I told him what my mother had done to me for years, because of him. Out of guilt, he fully paid for my education, travel and living expenses. He made me promise to never mention anything to my mother, and he would do the same. He said that she has anger issues and wouldn’t understand. Anger issues… he doesn’t say…
I do not know if I loved my mother. I don’t hate women. Not all of them. While growing up, though, some sort of stress builds up inside of me. It becomes overwhelming, the anxiety. The pressure. It’s as if my whole world begins to circle around me. I can’t get away from it. There is no end to it, until I release it. I don’t know why, but I have to kill. I have to punish those that made my life unbearable. If it weren’t for the trash of society ruining my society, then I wouldn’t be like this.
After I kill, a sense of gratification, relief, and euphoria come over me. I can only describe it like a drug. Although I disdain the use of drugs. Losing control of yourself is not logical. But this, this isn’t my fault. I have to do this, otherwise I can’t work. I don’t like violence, really. I find that a good conversation is more effective than a good sword thrust. But these whores; the money hungry, attention seeking, bottom feeders.
You see them at brothels, at hotels, on street corners. Swooning decent men into spending their life savings for a few minutes of pleasure between their legs. They are predators. They feed on men’s weakness. They destroy families. They spread disease. They bring bastards into the world. I am getting stressed just thinking about it.