Confessions of a Killer

15 Internal horrors

Charlotte:

The scene before me is shocking. Making me retreat into my own head, mulling over ways to help the women downed inside the warehouse.

When it comes down to it there are only a few things in this life worth fighting for. Love being the number one reason. At least in my book.

It wasn't always what I had fought for. I had fought for my freedom, my sense of honor, myself. But love?

I didn't know the meaning of the word.

Family is believed to be important. The ones who birth you are the ones who are supposed to teach you, show you the correct ways of living. How to be an upstanding citizen. Give a childhood that's charming and idyllic, full of the number one reason to fight.

Love. Children are supposed to have gone to bed every night, tucked into soft comforters or blankets woven from generations passed, while parents read a bedtime story. Or two.

They are supposed to dry tears, kiss fears away, hug until safety is felt from all corners of their tiny worlds. There shouldn't be any disruptions in the peace felt by children, the comfort that is supposed to be given. Kids are supposed to be safe with their guardians.

Nightmares are supposed to be just that. A bad dream that happens at night, one that can be cuddled away. That unique smell that only moms have, like fresh baked bread, warmth and comfort, pushing away the acrid feeling that bubbles up when you feel terror. Or the contented feeling of safety like a blanket that fathers give, the kind of unconditional love that only parents can show towards their children is rarely found among those who aren't actual family.

I wouldn't know anything about family, or how they work if I hadn't seen this in action. Roman and Mabel's small family is charmingly unspoiled by the world. Sure, Roman has his demons. Every being that makes it to adulthood does. He's just so very good at taking care of what is his.

His smallest children, Ian and Bella, are little beams of light, literally bouncing off walls and spreading love like little fire goblins in a flame throwing frenzy. One tiny hug from either of them brings unadulterated joy to the recipient. They are cherished for being who and what they are. I hope that never changes.

Jax is another child of Romans. Though now considered a grown man, Damien and Roman have helped the young man to become honorable, kind, decent.

He is so much like his uncle that I have little doubts that he will continue to grow, continue on to lead in such a way that brings joy to many people. His no-bullshit attitude paired with his air of authority will help him in the long run.

Instead of that mother smell wafting into my memories I have the atrocious sensory memory of mold. Cold wet places, rank in disrepair, only a nice façade shown to the outside world in order for the fosters to get more kids into their hellholes of money pits.

My childhood had been a far cry from traditional. Instead of hugs, I'd be slapped, beaten and abandoned. Instead of drying my tears, the ones who were supposed to be my guardians only added more reasons why I should cry.

The cycle hit repeat more times than I'd like to remember, though now... I seem to be remembering the small things, little bits at a time. As if I have hit rock bottom, only to discover it has a basement, with more sublevels.

Many of my tattoos hide the physical scars of my past. The ink a promise to myself of better days to come. That there is hope for tomorrow. That there are people who I may one day call friend. It hadn't been a conscious thought. Purely instinct to survive. To adapt.

Friends can enter this category of love. At times friends are more important than family, at least in my limited and recent experience. They keep you upright if you are falling down drunk. Stop the pervy man at the bar from molesting you when you've perhaps had too much to drink.