From the book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own, I share tidbits from the manuscript with you each Tuesday.
Chapter 13 – An Olympic Race
. . . continued . . .
My oldest daughter, Brit, describes her grandparents here:
“The Devil with a baby face. As he grew older and darker, his skin seemed to drape over bone, a white-skulls face. Eyes so dark they seemed a cavern through which the night was pouring; a pinprick of red in the center, perceptible to even the smallest in the family. A physical embodiment of eternal war. He’s always watching, always listening; his cold, totalitarian breath forever on your neck.
Grandma had a face filled with a desperate, yearning malevolence and had made a home where harm was the norm, where evil settled in the corners like dust. In her there was a blankness that held unspeakable darkness if one were to scratch at the surface. She was a bloodthirsty follower with remorseless manipulation honed under years of supervision from the Devil himself.
They hurled themselves upon weaker, more innocent people. A will and lust for power, for lust itself.
An Evil that would rather kill the person doing the questioning than take a realistic look at itself.
Evil colonized them.”
Most could see the evil lurking in their souls – right behind their corneas was a presence that was not their own. I did not then and will not now enter a pissing match with evil. You are supposed to by biblical standards depart from evil. And that’s just what I did. I also taught my children to do the same thing.
To keep people together through the guise of forgiveness with those who have miserably abused us was and is just wrong. I had every right to walk away to safety. To find peace away from them. I do not have to feel guilt or shame for not being there with them, to support them, to listen to their bullshit. I simply do not have to do that. Religious ways would tell me that I should feel the urge to care for my parents as they grow old. Help them find redemption. Okay. That’s fine – fine for them.
. . .