Secrets of the Solomons

12. Unknown:

 *1st July, 2023, 5 p.m.*

It was easy to hack into the database of the government. It's where all the information about people is stored. There, I hacked into Fiona's database. According to my rat in the station, only one interrogation session was held with Fiona that legally confirmed that she did it. The trial was apparently going to be held soon. But a date hasn't been given yet.

I listened to a recording that was uploaded on June 29. It intrigued me more to find out about her and her family. especially what was going on in her mind. I want her. I want to know what goes on in her mind. I want to be able to meet her and see her face.

But what I am curious about is mostly what happened after the detective told the assistant to go out. I want to know what he knows.

Maybe I should pay Fiona a visit? Will she be surprised to see that I came to meet her? Will she be happy to see me?

No. I shouldn't see her right now. Maybe after her trial. The way she speaks makes it look like she has a plan. I am interested in finding out more about her. It's her I'll have; it's she who'll be had by me.

My obsession with people has a deep and disgusting history. I refer to it as disgusting, but it depends on one's views and thoughts.

When I was born, my parents were unhappy. My father was unhappy because a child from a woman he didn't love was born, and the same goes for my mother. My mother hated me because I looked like my father. I couldn't care less about my father, as he was never around during my childhood. But my mother was there in the house, and I had an obsession with wanting to make her proud and get her love. The more she pushed me away, the more I was determined and obsessed with her love.

What I had towards my mother should have been a child yearning for love. That should not have happened. But as I grew older, that turned into a child who desperately needed her love. Maybe that made her guilt for not loving me grow bigger and bigger until her conscience could no longer bear it. And it drove her to kill herself on my 11th birthday.

Being the child I was, I thought it was my love for her that killed her. She didn't love me and hated me so much that she would rather die than be with me in the same house. She would rather die than be called mom by me. It took me a year to realize it wasn't me or my love for her that killed her, but rather her guilt. My love for her was sincere, but that turned me into a beast that looked for a resemblance to my mother in any woman I saw. Whether it was my exes or previous women I had a crush on or were obsessed with, they all held a slight resemblance to my mother. Whether it was their looks, way of talking, or way of speaking—long dark hair and bright eyes—a smile controlled them at all times.

Fiona was in the same boat. But out of all those women, she resembled my mother the most. In her looks, of course. Comparing them in terms of character, attitude, and behavior is like comparing two different women from two different planets.

A part of me must think that getting her love, her mind, and her body is getting my mother's love. Disgusting, but yet true.

Right after my mother's death, my father remarried, and his new wife fulfilled the duties my mother didn't do. She taught me, raised me, and took care of me. Although she didn't love, it was her duty to do so out of the loyalty and love she felt towards my father.

I care for her, but I do not yearn for her true love. It may be because she is in no way similar to my mother or because I didn't really see my mother as a "mother." Instead, I saw her as a figure who was distant and cold, her love reserved only for herself.

Growing up, I longed for the warmth and affection that other children received from their mothers, but it was a void that could never be filled. My stepmother, on the other hand, was a constant presence in my life, always there to listen and support me. She may not have been my biological mother, but she played the role with such grace and dedication that I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards her. Thus, my gratitude and affection were born. My stepmother's love and care became a beacon of light in my life, filling the void left by my biological mother. She embraced me as her own, showering me with the affection and guidance that I had yearned for. Her selflessness and unwavering support made me realize that a mother's love knows no bounds, transcending blood ties. With each passing day, my gratitude and affection for her grew deeper, intertwining our lives in a bond that was unbreakable. She became not just a stepmother but a true mother figure, shaping my character and molding me into the heir my father wanted.

Yet it wasn't enough for me to become a proper human being on the inside.

I knew I had to prove myself in the external world as well. Inspired by my stepmother's guidance, I worked tirelessly to excel academically and strive for success in my chosen career path. Her constant belief in my abilities fueled my determination, and together, we shattered the barriers that society had erected around me. As I stood on the stage, receiving accolades for my achievements, I knew that without her unwavering faith and love, I would not have been able to flourish into the person I had become.

I speak as if I were a great person. I am not. If I truly were, would I be doing all of this for a mere girl?

I, myself, don't know the answer.