I STAND UNDER the weak spray of the cheap shower and try to wash away my day. For at least the twentieth time, I contemplate moving out of this shithole. When I decided to sequester myself, I was unsure of my financial position. I had $649 in my checking account and no clear source of income. This apartment had been cheap, with no deposit required. Now, with a bank account balance comfortably in the seven-figure range, it is ridiculous that I live in a place with occasional hot water. But moving seems an insurmountable task. And I chalk it up to a penance of sorts. I killed, so I am punished.
My last cammer of the day, RalphMA35, had been the typical “young experience” client. I should be used to creeps, should be able to brush it off and move on. Maybe it’s because he had been the last of the night, but for some reason I can’t let the session go. I can’t forget the hoarseness of his voice, the need I heard through the speakers, or the hungry emphasis on the name he called me. Annie. It was my third chat with Ralph and the second time he used that name. It isn’t often that clients use a specific name. It isn’t often that I take the place of a specific person. When he uttered her name, spoke that sweet name in a tone that was anything but, it ripped my heart out—grabbed it, squeezed it, then yanked it out, leaving devastation in its wake.
I turn off the spray, grab the towel off the hook, and rub down my wet skin. I flip off the light and walk naked through the loft till I reach the edge of my mattress. I start to reach for the blanket to pull back the sheets and crawl in. But I stop. I stop and think—a foreign and complex push and pull of emotions battling inside 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.