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I live in a constant state of emptiness.
It’s the only way I feel at home.
Silence.
Solitude.
Seclusion.
Only the constant itch of needingmorepulls me from isolation.
More pain.
More violence.
Morelessons.
This is what I fill up on.
This is what I devour.
All things I learned from birth.
My father taught me lessons.
My grandfather taught me lessons.
It’s my turn to teach, to punish.
William Varon is my latest pupil, and the sight of his ostentatious home makes my skin crawl.
The landscaping, the welcome mat, the flimsy curtains that are always pulled back in invitation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. What lies behind the walls would make any normal person sick to their stomach.
It’s a good thing I’m not normal.
From the outside, the man looks like a model citizen.
He smiles and laughs at all the right times and greets people by name when he sees them on the sidewalk.
He donates to charity, buys girl scout cookies, and drops money in the iconic red kettles during the holidays.
He’snormal, a successful businessman, a philanthropist.
That’s what others see.
That’s what hewantsthem to see.
People can’t see past the gleaming smile to the darkness inside of him.
They don’t know what happens in the dark, what he’s capable of behind the fancy double doors of his home.
They don’t have a clue that he’s a third-generation abuser, a sex trafficker.
They would be surprised to discover he has a woman enslaved inside, that he’s purchased a little girl meant for unmentionable things.
They would probably be appalled, disgusted, downright sickened by the lessons he’s taught to those he has owned over the years.
If she had just done what I said.
