BEX
One of the things Louise, my counsellor, was always banging on about was cause and effect. Just because I was the daughter of my parents it didn’t mean that I was to blame for their deaths, she said. If only she knew.
I could have talked to her about how I really felt and the reasons why I did what I did. I kept silent not just because of the consequences – the truth would result in me being sent to prison or some kind of psychiatric ward – but also because there was something delicious about keeping it all to myself.
At night, I would replay the lead-up to the events of that Valentine’s Day over and over in my head. I would see everything in slow motion: the never-ending spritz of the aftershave, the droplets spreading slowly through the room, hiding those cards from the Italian restaurant, practising the handwriting over and over again, and finally writing that card and placing it in that shoebox in the wardrobe. I remembered the thrill I felt while I was waiting for Dad to find the card, the chord of ecstasy that played up and down my spine as I counted down the minutes. The anticipation, as always, was just as thrilling as the actual event, the deaths that followed.
Of course, over the years I did ask myself what lay behind it all. And the answer was so simple even my counsellor could have understood it if I’d told her. How would she have felt if she’d heard that her mother tried to abort her before she was born? That she’d never been wanted, never been loved? That she feared the spectre of rejection with such a primal dread that she was prepared to do anything – she was even prepared to kill – rather than risk its approach? Sometimes, during these sessions I’d be talking about how hard I was finding it to fit in at school (a lie) and wondering whether I’d ever be happy (another lie) when inside I’d be conducting a different kind of confession. I’d play both roles – those of counsellor and subject – myself, silently asking and then answering a series of questions.
Q: Do you think you’re damaged?
A: Yes, I’m sure I am, but I don’t care. In fact, I think I can use it to my advantage.
Q: What do you think was the source of that damage?
A: I don’t know. Perhaps what my mum tried to do to me when I was in her womb. Was it something to do with that? I’ll never know. Or was it living with them? Growing up in a violent home? Watching my mum being beaten. Seeing her turn herself invisible through the drinking. Knowing I wasn’t loved?
Q: What do you think of your mother and father now?
A: I’m pleased they’re both dead. They deserved it. If they didn’t want to bring me into this world, why did they?
Q: How do you see your future?
A: As bright as the sun on a summer’s day, almost impossible to look at.
Q: What did you feel when you were planning it all?
A: Alive. More alive than I’ve ever felt before.
Q: Did you hate them? Is that why you did it?
A: I suppose so, but it went deeper than hate.
Q: What do you mean?
A: I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.
Q: And why did you choose Valentine’s Day?
A: All that hearts and flowers shit … It’s all fake. I mean, I suppose it’s about love, isn’t it? Or the lack of it.
Q: Will you do it again in the future?
A: It depends.
Q: On what?
A: …
Q: On what?
A: If nobody wants me. If someone tells me they don’t love me. If I feel I’m going to be cast aside.