I did not get a choice. I could not refuse my father’s desires. I was forced to participate against my will. The last thing I wanted to do at three or five or ten was to hold a knife in my tiny hand. My father wrapped his huge hand around mine and plunged the knife into the victim’s heart. I remembered the sound of crushing cartilage, the blood spurting outward and coating the knife and my hand and his, and the coppery odor filling the air around me.
There is a show on television, a new one, and I find it so triggering. It is called The Following. The show is about teaching others to become serial killers. Something is warped and wrong about that show. I have not been able to watch it all the way through. I literally zone out and go to sleep. The truth smacks me on the face. It is not easy to live with it.
I did not want to be involved with my father’s criminal acts. Yet at age three or five or ten I knew I could not refuse or be the victim of his violence.