Janine {Completed}

Part 1 - Childhood

I was born Janine May Davison on May 4th, 1982 in the city of Branson, Missouri. I had 2 older brothers, Christopher, who was two when I was born, and Garold, who was four.

My parents had divorced shortly after my third birthday, leaving Garold, Christopher and I to live with our mother. We visited dad only on weekends. 

Garold used to get into many fights when I was growing up, he'd come home with bloody noses and black eyes, insisting he got them from "falling down on rocks." For some reason, I never could understand why my mom was so bothered by this. Speaking of her, she had found a new husband when I turned four.

Her new husband, my step dad, was an engineer. She didn't love him, she just wanted his money. I couldn't blame her. She never told me this, but I could just tell by the way she looked at him so dully. Luckily, my step father never picked up on this, or at least I don't think he did.

The next year when I was five, my mother had a new baby, and from my step dad. Her name was Emmy.

I didn't like Emmy. To me, she looked too much like my step dad. I'd often pinch her cheeks so hard until she started crying, and almost gained energy from her pain. It made me happy, hurting her like that. When my mom started seeing pink bruises on Emmy's body, she freaked out, once again, and took her to the doctor.

The doctor explained Emmy got them from getting hurt somewhere. I know, because I was present when it happened. I ended up having to admit to my mother and the doctor that it was actually me who made the bruises. Thankfully, the doctor dismissed it as "harmless play fighting," but made it clear that it was bad and that I couldn't do things like that to her anymore.

So, after that, my mom never allowed me near Emmy. Even if I got the chance to bruise her again, I'd only get in trouble. And, I did love my mother, but not Emmy. If hurting Emmy meant hurting her, I didn't want to do it.

So I found other things to hurt. Things my mother didn't love. Like cats, she was allergic to cats, which I thought meant she hated them. I'd find stray cats around the neighborhood and throw rocks at them. Most times, I missed. Only if the cat happened to be slow the rock would actually hit it. I remember feeling thrilled when I was able to successfully hit them, the way they would squirm and hiss almost made my insides tingle.

Once, Garold caught me throwing rocks at one of the stray cats of our neighborhood. He asked me why I was trying to hurt the "poor thing," I simply replied that it made me happy. He called me a freak, but did nothing else. If he had informed our mother about this, I'm almost sure she would've gotten psychiatric help for me, which probably might've turned down my psychopathy right there, but he didn't, so my psychopathic behavior only deepened.

I never remembered feeling empathy towards people, other than my family of course. I felt my mom's distress when she found bruises on Emmy's body, I felt Garold's pain when he came home with bruises, but to everybody else, it was like my feelings weren't working. I didn't care about anybody else's feelings, and I never knew why.

Of course, I didn't mind lacking empathy. I actually enjoyed it. I considered it an ability nobody else had, a gift. It was my superpower, and nobody could take it away.