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They weren’t much for spanking; a swat on the butt was about as bad as it got, and even that didn’t happen often. It was the rare look of disappointment in their eyes that hurt so much that we’d do anything to avoid it.
My sisters and brothers—Emilie, Francois, Odette, and Jules—succeeded because they weren’t born with the devil inside them. They grew up happy and normal. They married and had kids.
They never wanted to rape and torture anybody.
Yes, that’s right. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to do very bad things to people.
Not all people, mind you. Just people I disliked. The gardener who kicked my dog for digging in the flower beds. The nanny who told my little brother a ghost story and made him cry.
I had very specific images in my mind of what I wanted to do— flaying them. Burning them. Making them scream and crawl. And in the end, I always killed them—in my head, anyway.
Violent scenes in movies and books fascinated me. As soon as I learned to read, I’d go through my parents’ enormous library, looking for books depicting violence and cruelty. One time, when I was six, I almost got caught indulging. I learned to be more watchful after that.
I’d been avidly devouring a scene where a thief was being tortured to make him talk, to reveal the location of hidden diamonds. Someone was getting ready to shove a red-hot poker up his rectum. The idea fascinated me. I started thinking about the things that I’d do to the man. He’d be talking in no time. And I’d still keep hurting him.
I sat curled up in an overstuffed leather chair. The library was my idea of heaven—walls and walls of bookshelves, the smell of old paper, and a faint whiff of my father’s cologne mingled with my mother’s light honeysuckle perfume. I got so distracted that I didn’t notice my mother walking up behind me. She reached out and took the book from me. Thankfully, it closed, so she never found out what page I was on.
“What are you reading,mon petit chou?”
It means my little cabbage. Doesn’t really translate well, but it’s a term of endearment, her pet phrase for me. She had one for each of her children. When she used mine at that moment, it made me feel guilty.
“Just a book. I finished my homework,” I said quickly, putting a little bit of a lie in my tone. Something that would catch her attention. I did that because I’d acted guilty when I heard her voice, and I needed to have a reason for acting that way. If I made her think I hadn’t really finished my homework, she’d concentrate on that and not on the contents of the book.
That’s another part of my sickness. I’ve been a devious bastard since I learned to string sentences together.
She frowned. “Did you now? We should go check on that and make sure you haven’t forgotten any of it.” Not a hint of reproach in her voice. My mother was an angel.
My father would have taken away dessert if he’d caught me lying about my homework. Worse yet would be his disappointment. It would have curdled my stomach. That was the one thing that could’ve made me want to cry. My mother would have sneaked the dessert into my bedroom when she came to read me a story. That was just how she was. I shared a room with my brother Francois, but he would’ve covered for me and Mom.
We were all close, once upon a time.
I’d almost gotten away with my deception, but my mother was too observant. She held up the book and looked at the writing on the back jacket cover, and when her brows drew together, I knew I’d been caught.
“Oh, no, this is for grown-ups. This is much too adult for you. Why are you even interested in it?” She looked puzzled.
Even then, I knew better than to tell her what I liked about the book.
I made my big blue eyes even bigger. My mother was a smart woman but always fell for that. She wanted to believe her children were angels. And in four out of five cases, she was right. “It’s about Africa. I like reading about Africa.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding with understanding. “I’ll get you books about Africa, but ones that are for your age.” She looked up from the book, one eyebrow cocked in contemplation. “What do you like about Africa?”
“They have elephants. I want to ride an elephant.” I just pulled that one out of my ass. And she bought it. How did I know? I had elephant rides for my seventh birthday.
That was how things were for me until I was fifteen, and darkness swallowed my world.
My brothers and sisters and I, we’d just ask, and we’d get it. Whatever “it” was. We studied hard, we had excellent manners, we got perfect grades, and we were rewarded abundantly with love and toys and attention and approval.
There is no reason for me to be the way I am. I have no one to blame for the sickness in my soul.
I wasn’t diddled or tortured or humiliated. I grew up in a medieval château on an enormous estate with a loving family who taught me right from wrong. We were swaddled in privilege and were waited on by an army of servants. We traveled the world. We lived a dream life.
It wasn’t enough.
I wanted to hear people scream in pain. Pain I inflicted. I yearned to see people die, very slowly, at my feet.
I only wanted to hurt people who had wronged me or my family, but I knew my vengeful cravings were terrifyingly out of proportion.
Why was I like that? My parents were so good, so pure, so moral that I was racked with guilt for my disgusting cravings.
