The difference is everything.
I've been thinking about your last letter, about the responsibility that comes with clarity. You're right that most people can't handle the truth about what justice sometimes requires. But I can handle it. More than that—I understand it in ways that surprise even me.
When I helped you position my father's body that night, I wasn't just following your lead. I was participating in something that felt right on a level deeper than conscious thought. The careful attention to detail, the ritualistic precision, the way every element served a purpose beyond simple disposal—it all made sense to me in a way that normal teenage concerns never have.
I dream about that night sometimes. Not nightmares—the therapist keeps asking about nightmares and flashbacks and trauma responses that don't exist. I dream about the moment when everything clicked into place, when I understood that what I was witnessing wasn't horror but justice delivered with surgical care.
I dream about the way you moved, the methodical precision of someone who'd thought through every detail. The way you explained the positioning without making me feel stupid for asking questions. The way you trusted me enough to let me help rather than sending me away to protect my innocence.
Because my innocence was already gone, wasn't it? Years of living with him had taught me things about violence and power that most people never learn. You recognized that knowledge in me and treated me like an equal rather than a victim who needed shielding from difficult truths.
In your letters, you've taught me to think about methodology and philosophy in ways that make sense of what I experienced. You've helped me understand that the anger I carry isn't something to be cured but something to be channeled toward productive ends.
But more than that, you've shown me what it means to be truly seen by another person. Not judged or analyzed or treated as a case study, but recognized for who I actually am underneath all the performances I have to maintain.
The truth is, I think I understand your work better than you realize. Not just the technical aspects—though your explanations about psychological preparation and moral clarity have been illuminating—but the deeper necessity that drives it.
You kill monsters because someone has to. You do it with precision and ceremony because justice deserves both. You carry the weight of those deaths because the alternative is allowing innocent people to suffer indefinitely.
If I were older, if I were stronger, if I had the skills and knowledge that come with experience—I think I could do what you do. I think I could make the same choices you've made, accept the same responsibilities you've accepted.
Does that make me dangerous? Does that make me like him?
I don't think so. The difference is intention, purpose, the careful thought that precedes action. My father hurt people because he enjoyed having power over them. You hurt people because they've proven they can't be stopped any other way.
That distinction matters. It's the difference between predator and executioner, between violence for gratification and violence for justice.
I wanted you to know that I see that distinction clearly. I wanted you to know that your trust in my understanding was justified. And I wanted you to know that having someone in my life who recognizes what I'm capable of—not what I've survived, but what I might become—means more to me than any therapy or sympathy or well-intentioned concern.
You saved me that night. Not just from him, but from a lifetime of believing I was powerless against monsters. You showed me what justice looks like when it's delivered by someone who understands its true weight.
If that's dangerous knowledge for someone my age to carry, then I accept the danger. If it changes me in ways that make normal relationships impossible, then I accept that isolation.
Because truth is more important than comfort. Justice is more important than peace. And understanding is more important than being understood by people who would never accept what we've shared.
Write back soon. Your letters are the only thing that feels real anymore.
D.
My hands shake as I fold the letter, matching his precise creases with movements that feel ceremonial in their careful attention to detail. The envelope is cream-colored, matching the ones he uses, as if we're part of some formal correspondence that requires maintaining certain standards of presentation.
But as I write his name and P.O. Box address in careful block letters, I realize what I've just done. I've crossed a line that can't be uncrossed, revealed thoughts and inclinations that make me complicit in his worldview in ways that go beyond simple gratitude for past services.
I've essentially confessed to potential capacity for violence. I've admitted to understanding and approving of methods that society would classify as fundamentally evil. I've told a serial killer that I think I could become like him if circumstances required it.
The letter sits sealed on my desk, heavy with implications that could destroy both our lives if it fell into the wrong hands. But it represents the most honest thing I've ever written, the closest I've come to expressing my true thoughts without filtering them through other people's expectations.
For better or worse, it's who I actually am underneath all the performances. Someone who understands that monsters exist and that sometimes they have to be killed. Someone who can look at carefully applied violence and see justice rather than tragedy. Someone who would rather carry dangerous truth than comfortable lies.
Tomorrow I'll mail it and wait for his response, knowing that whatever he writes back will determine whether our correspondence continues or whether I've finally revealed too much for even him to accept.
But tonight, for the first time since that night in our kitchen, I feel completely myself. Dangerous, maybe. Honest, definitely.
And finally, finally free.
Chapter 14 - Kent
OCTOBER 2025
