“This horrible half-grief has made me feel complicit in darkness. I worry that my sadness
will be interpreted as an endorsement of his choices—of his very existence—and in this
matter I don’t want to be misunderstood, so I cannot admit that I grieve him, that I care at
all for the loss of this monstrous man who raised me. And in the absence of healthy action
I remain frozen, a sentient stone in the wake of my father’s death.
I hated him.
I hated him with a violent intensity I’ve never since experienced. But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care.
And it is this, my unrequited affection for my father, that has always been my greatest weakness. So I lie here, marinating in a sorrow I can never speak of, while regret consumes my heart.
I am an orphan.”