Disturbed Mind 1 We

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To be more accurate, I wasn't playing with mine with dolls. Like all little girls, I have held one in my hands at times and like all children, I have had fun dismembering it. I don't know how I felt at the time. Probably I didn't feel much of anything, at least, the pleasure was not enough to keep it engraved in my mind and bring me something positive in the long term.

The positive is the only really important thing in a life. Like jouissance, it contributes to the desire to discover more and more by experimenting with new things. It is a pity that no one gives us the positivity for free. People are stingy, their nature is not generous, they keep the positive for themselves and are content to throw at us the remains they don't want. I don't really blame them. I myself keep my happiness to myself and Dean, just pouring my anger on others so I can really understand them.

Speaking of others, I obviously cannot omit my parents or those who say they are and who are the people who have seen us grow up. From the perspective of the people of Hudville, my mother, in addition to being one of the pillars of the community, represents social success. However, she is only a simple country lawyer, but in a small town of 1100 inhabitants, it seems that her professional situation, however modest it may be, succeeds in triggering pa.s.sions. Paradoxically, the inhabitants' view of my father is quite neutral. He is the one of good guy, a friend, one of their own, nothing more. In the city, these two are much appreciated for their kindness and their great generosity. I'm abbreviating because I don't want to rent them excessively.

From an intimate point of view, I know from my own source that the appearance they offer voluntarily to the outside world is totally biased. The man and woman I know are very different from this image, but if one day I had dared to say that neither my father nor my mother deserved to be admired, or that become friends with them was like giving a pickpocket his wallet, no one would have believed me.

How could I address the subject? Let's say it this way. We must have been 6 years old. My twin brother Dean, no longer able to handle the situation, naively thought he could find help from one of the only adults he knew. As we did not have an elementary school in Hudville, we had to take a school bus to the nearby small town. It was precisely there that Dean went to see our teacher at the time. She was called Miss Chapiro as I recall. He showed Miss Chapiro his bruised arms, legs and chest, while a few feet away I trembled at the thought of her repeating it to our mother. Her mouth opened with shock, she trembled a little, stretched her arms towards Dean, but her words did not reflect her actions and expressions: "Dean you must be a nicer boy at home. Parents are forced to punish bad children, so promise me you'll be a good little boy."

Dean never told anyone about this failed attempt again. For my part, I preferred to let the hatred I felt for my parents slowly overwhelm me. Day after day, I consumed that hatred. It gave me pleasure. A pleasure that was offered to me, only to me and that I did not have to share with anyone. Under my father's blows, the years quickly pa.s.sed. The daily beatings stopped two years ago, when, as my father got older, he had to bow to Dean, who had become tall and strong.

Certainly our father beat us, but never I blame him. Like us, he is a victim. All these years, he was prey to the unhealthy and perverse creature that is his wife. Prit between her claws, his flesh torn off by her sharp fangs, unable to get away with it, it is logical to think that he had to express his anger in one way or another. The only way he could think of was to mistreat his children. Of course, I don't thank him. Turn the other cheek? I can't afford to apply this bulls.h.i.+t read in the Bible either, but I can't really blame him for his actions that followed the bullying and humiliations he was going through himself.