Mother didn't believe me. She only wanted to think of the 'happy times'. My uncle told someone, bragging about them using me, who tipped off the CPS. My caseworker was a little Asian woman. I think I was ten. She was the only one who I think really cared. She took me to the park once. The court decided I would need "treatment" for my anger and distrust, though I ended up getting very little of that in the group facility I spent, oh, five or six years in. At the end, I was bounced around between foster parents. I found work, and left, and the I never saw any of them again.

I still loved my mother. I wanted to believe that when she had to face the truth, she only refused to leave that pig faced bastard because he threatened her, or preferably because he threatened me. If not for his short sentence, I wanted to believe we could still be together. I wanted to believe she just couldn't handle the idea of him ever hurting me, and that's why she told me I would go to hell for lying.

But she didn't believe me, even after all those years. So why should I believe in her? I never spoke to her again. I started to see her as weak, too submissive and afraid to protect me, to see the truth, and from that perception of her, my perception of women was warped.

I found it difficult to interact with men, and harder to trust women. Men I could be on guard with. I could defend myself. If I was lied to, it made me angry. If I was misled, or seen as weak by someone inherently weaker than myself, it made me angry.

I killed her after dinner. She had said she didn't believe it was that bad, that those things don't happen to men, just scared little boys who grow out of it when they get hard for the first time and start abusing others instead. I controlled myself enough to fake a laugh about wanting attention. I guess it didn't matter to her that much. She stayed for the meal and left with me. Right in the alleyway, in a dumpster, not a trace. Started to deny it, convinced myself the past never happened, from my childhood to the murders.

I got messier. Angry if it was brought up somehow, unintentionally. They didn't know. It felt like they were mocking me, trying to put holes in what I had convinced myself to be true. I'd kill them and forget again. At least five women.

Arrested, convicted. I never admitted to it, even when they had proof and were accusing me of contempt of court. I was supposed to be locked up for life. Not as bad as when I was volunteered against my will for "experimental psychiatric treatment." I had been in isolation off and on for my ten years in jail, for scaring other inmates with my outbursts and breakdowns. It had been a month or two right before that all happened.

When the power went out, their treatment burnt my face half off. Something about the chemicals used to induce the trances, I'm not sure of the specifics. I was stuck, hanging there, for hours, with it mostly leaking onto my neck and chest. The strain of that, combined with the video they had playing, had fucked my eyes up. It brought my trauma to the front of my mind. I could hardly withstand it, and probably would have killed myself if not for one thing my mother had told me when I told her.

"If you hate it here so much, marry yourself off and go somewhere else."

The entire time I would black out, as if unconscious, though I think I slept hardly four hours during that week based on what I would see I had done when I came to.

I hated those doctors. They deserved it.