This room is not mine, Vesp. It's my mother's. She died last year. She seems nice in the photos, right? Pretty. Gentle. But she was sick, and she wrapped me in her sickness. I was different as a child. I had a severe speech impediment. My father, the hero, hated me for what he saw as a weakness. He made sure to remind me every day. I was teased incessantly; my own brother was embarrassed by me.
And then the accident happened. Things got worse. My mother told me people were trying to kill me and she took me up here, afraid the teasing and taunting would get worse with my scars. My dad used to pull me out of my bed at night, he used to make me swim in that lake until I would almost drown and then he'd pull me out. That playground, he made me build those obstacle courses and run them for hours until I would vomit or pass out. He thought my mother was making me soft, so he had to make me strong. She put on a good enough act for him, he knew she wasn't well, but he didn't want to be bothered with us, no one did. Our families have an image, they have goals, and we were blemishes on that perfection. I wasn't allowed to leave the land here without her, have friends. My speech improved as I got older, but when I was finally about to go out there, I was so overwhelmed by the outside that I found it easier to hide my voice, especially when it came to women. I didn't want fucking pity. I didn't want people laughing at me. Around my brother and mother, though, I could speak almost normally.
When my father died, I realized I could sneak out at night and be like everyone else. That's when it started. That's when I realized that when I was out there, alone like that, I had all the power. It was like a drug, and when that drug came over me, I became someone else. I watched the lives I had missed out on, the ones I knew I would never have because I was not like everyone else—a fact my dear mother had reminded me of every fucking day.
When she died, I snapped. I did the things you see mentioned in the articles I gave you. I stopped just watching and prowling. I found my voice. It was hiding in the darkest part of me, where rage, power, and sex intermingle. I didn't care about how they saw me, because I was in charge, and my stammer would disappear. I didn't have secrets in those homes I took over, and with that burden being lifted off, so did the oppressive tightness in my throat, so did the heaviness of my tongue. It was always something, my dad watching me, the kids at school, the secrets I kept, something was always like an invisible hand, choking me, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak.
You said you wanted to know, Vesper. Now you do.
I read the note, sometimes reading the same line over and over, the information overload making it hard to process this story of isolation and rage.
I look up at Sam, and though nothing physically has changed, I see him differently. I am angry at him, and I am sad for him.
“Why did you come to my house? I know you were watching me, but why me? You didn't take the others.”
He sighs, again writing down his answer.
Because I saw you with Johnny. And it made me remember what it was like to have someone who took care of me like that. The person I loved and hated most in this world. But even she wasn't you. You were perfect. You were the person I wish I had had. You were the person I dreamed of.
“But you took me away from him. You understand? You hurt the little boy you saw as yourself.”
I didn't plan to take you. I had never been so careless. But you make me act out of character. You make me a fool.
“What's your brother going to do?”
He gave me a choice. He said he would forget what he saw if we left town.
I chuckle to myself. “I was going to propose that myself,” I say, realizing how ridiculous I sound as I say it aloud. Giving my kidnapper ideas on how to never be found again.
He scrunches his brow.
“Well, it's just that, if we were going to try being…normal, we'd have to start fresh. But I don't know, Sam. I honestly don't know with you. You have to understand what's happening to me. I feel like an idiot for saying this…but, I don't think you're all bad. I know what you've done. I know the pain you've caused, but I do see that boy. I see that inside of you there is still a gentle person…” I begin to sob, the knotted cluster of emotions tugging at what's left of my soul. “But how do I forgive myself for falling for you?”
He watches me cry in silence, his brow furrowed with concern and confusion.
Finally, he scribbles something on his notepad.
The only person you ever have to hate is me.
But I can't. I can get angry. I can become disgusted at times, but I can't hate him.