Counterblow

"Consider myself a bit of a superhero. Well, since I'm a female, superheroine. Of course, most might believe I'm insane, but overall I honestly don't give a damn what people think. I do what I feel is necessary and it'll be a cold ass day in hell before I apologize or show remorse. What is there to be apologetic about? I routinely rid the world of filth and what makes it better is that I never seek accolades. 

If I were to apologize to anyone it would be you. Searching your eyes, I plainly read that I hurt you, but you know what? I'm really not sorry. I could drum up tears, my lower lip could go all aquiver, I could beg on my hands and knees for your forgiveness, but what would be the point if it's pure bullshit? And even if you believed me then what? Not like we could rewind time and carry on as we were before you were aware of the truth. This is it. Regardless of what happens during these next few minutes, you and I are finished.

Suppose I could apologize for that and mean it. I don't wish to lose you as you're the only person in my twenty-eight years I've cared about. In fact, considered my heart completely frozen until you came along with your bubbly spirit and radiating warmth abundant enough to thaw. During the last nine months numerous times I've wondered how you managed that, how you managed to make me fall in love with you when I assumed myself incapable of such emotion.

Love. That word tasted sour and foreign to my lips until you taught me how it felt to truly love someone and be wholeheartedly loved in return. Never had the opportunity to be loved, which is why I've never sought it. You see, my own mother cared more about acquiring crack cocaine than learning to love me. In fact, she never did much of anything for me. I got myself up for school, made my own meals at such a young age that I needed a chair to reach the stove, figured out how to do my own homework and I don't know what it feels like to have been tucked into bed and read a bedtime story.

As for my father, he cared more about keeping my mother high as a kite, which made it so much easier for him to love me in an inappropriate way. Loved me with such gusto I had two abortions by the time I was seventeen, both occasions fibbing that a fictitious boyfriend knocked me up.

When I turned eighteen, Mom serenaded me with a sloppy drunken version of Happy Birthday and attempted to make me breakfast--two severely crisp pieces of bacon, runny eggs and a slice of toast. Actually, the toast wasn't half bad even if it didn't contain any butter. Went to school where I didn't have any friends as I wasn't into being close to people. However, somehow my Language Arts teacher knew it was my birthday and she surprised me with a present--it was a lovely pen and pencil set, each engraved with my name tucked into this nice case. Up to that point, the best present of my life.

Dad brought a bucket of chicken home, the two of us eating at the kitchen table while Mom was stretched out on the couch, a well used needle still protruding from her arm. Afterward, I escaped to my bedroom to do my homework, almost done when I heard a familiar knock. He always knocked the same. Tap tap, pause, tap tap tap. I didn't want to say come in. I never wanted him to come in, but I realized he would whether I granted access or not.

Dressed in...God. Sorry. I've never told anyone this so it's difficult, you know? I want you to know. It's just...the words, the sentences are within my head, but difficult to make them vocal. This might be my last opportunity so...yes, I want to tell you.

He was dressed in his customary blue bathrobe, standing there with an off-white crooked smile. I hated that smile. I hated that he always smelled of beer even when he didn't seem to be drinking. I hated how moist and hairy his body was when...when he was on top of me. I hated everything about him. Mom wasn't worth much but compared to him she was an angel. A crack addicted angel oblivious to what her husband had been doing under their roof since I was nine.