Why do they lie to me?
My family lies to me. Isn’t it a lie by not telling?
I know that I’m not like everyone else. Everyone else tells me that, except my own family won’t tell me the truth.
Why am I different? And…am I what the others say I am?
Sometimes people just look at me and hate me. I don’t know why. I must look terrible to them or remind them of someone else. I did nothing to them.
People watch me. I don’t go out much. When I do, my family guards me carefully. I must be very special. No one else like me is around.
I ask them, “Am I adopted?”
“No,” they say. But they don’t wonder why I asked? It’s because other people tell me I’m not like you. Can’t you see that? I’m asking for the truth that you don’t think I can handle. Am I really half-Monster?
So we live in a pretend world where I pretend I’m normal even though I’m not.
You know I’m not, they know I’m not, I know I’m not – but here we are.
You pretend I’m normal while they want to kill me. They want to hurt animals, too.
I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. I can pretend, too. I’ll pretend that they’re animals.
I can make animals go away.
People don’t like to talk about some things. They think those things are so obvious that they don’t need to be mentioned. But nothing’s necessarily “obvious” to a child.
Holy shit. I’m in a brain that’s completely alienated. Why did I do this to myself? I thought I had better control. Maybe if I don’t maintain a certain level of concentration I lose any influence over the next transcarnation?
Or maybe my latest calculations are correct. Maybe I have to experience the lives of every creature that’s ever lived. And so far it’s only been alternate versions of one guy. If I have to go through alternate versions of every creature of every other Earth, that will take…
Wow. I can actually do that. And there’s still some room left over.
If all of these me’s must exist in order for any me to be real, then aren’t all of the other me’s inside of any single one?
Maybe not. It doesn’t follow – but I’m not thinking straight.
Have I always harbored a homicidal child deep inside?
Have you ever wished for the death of your parent?
God help me, I have. In frustration, from knowing nothing else but the sense of lingering responsibility, I have. I tell myself I didn’t mean it. But I meant it at the time.
This is different, though. I’m not just wishing for it to happen “somehow.” I’m considering ways to move things along…
I tell myself it’s merciful. What kind of life is that anyway? Dull? Routine? Drudgery. Old age is creeping up there, too. Time’s running out and things are going downhill from here. Why prolong everyone’s agony?
I’m about to stick a knife in a back when I see the cats. I can’t remember their names. One’s watching me. I like cats. I’ve even been one.
Cats have a different sense of time than people. Time is better for them. The only memory they have of the distant past is stored in their senses of smell and taste. They never forget a smell or a taste and what it meant to them.
For cats there is no concept of future. There is only “next.” Next I will catch some prey. Next I will find a place to nap. Next I will dream.
Cats don’t comprehend their own impending deaths or the deaths of their associates – unless someone’s been laying around decaying too long. But they know when someone’s missing. They might die of a broken heart from that.
These aren’t the kinds of thoughts that normally occupy this brain. But they’re keeping me from murdering anyone today – so far.
But wait, there’s more. Things are coming to mind, and I’m realizing that the family is covering for me. They’ve been hiding my – indiscretions – from authorities and neighbors.
I feel such pity for this version of myself. She won’t miss anyone at all.
And I won’t miss her.