The more I think about it, the more I believe there has to be a subtle yet satisfying method of revenge.

I know he did horrible things in the jungle. Things no amount of alcohol or pills could erase. War stains soldiers, all the way through their psyches, into their souls. I understand that, and could almost forgive him for taking his own life, to quiet the ghosts. But I can never forgive him for taking my mother with him.

It's just so hard to feel good, you know?

I don't need more pain in my life. Why did I invite it in? Do I have to feel pain to believe I feel anything at all?

I really have to wonder who or what made Daddy become this way. Babies aren't born cruel or filled with sick desire. Evil is not intrinsic. It's fashioned.

So you try to think of someone else you're mad at, and the unavoidable answer pops into your little warped brain: everyone.

I needed to see, needed to know, needed a whole lot more.