Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
***
THE NAME DOMINIC MEANT "OF THE LORD."
It was a holy name, given to priests and saints. Saint Dominic of Silos, Saint Dominic de la Calzada, Saint Dominic of Osma, Saint Dominguito del Val, Saint Dominic Savio, and the 15 martyrs of Vietnam all of whom carried my name.
The history of my name chipped away at me bit by bit every time I lied, killed or set something ablaze. It was a strange thought thinking about someone who lived hundreds of years before me and called themselves the same thing I did but instead of being scorned as spoiled and temperamental, they were praised as holy and blessed.
I used to run these thoughts through my head over and over again at three in the morning when sleep wouldn't grace me with its presence. My therapist told me to write it down instead and I tend to trust men with 4 degrees to back them up. So, here I am, eating syrup drenched waffles at 4 in the morning and writing down my thoughts and feelings like I used to when I was six.
There's something nostalgic about the whole ordeal. I remember the Malibu house and me curled up in the corner of our gigantic couch with my black leather bound notebook propped open on my lap. I used to write about nonsense, about how dad had brought back pizza from New York or about how Pepper put frosting on my nose and that I would never forgive her.
I still haven't forgiven her.
I don't know why but I can imagine a copy of these words sitting on a shelf at a smalltown bookstore long after I die and a small teenage boy picking it up and committing every scenario in it to memory. He'd take it back to his friends and tell them the story of a dumb old billionaire over hot chocolate and sugar cookies.
But, if there's even a chance of that happening in the future, I should probably start from the beginning.
***
(I promise the main chapters will not be this short but prologues are usually short right?)
