We truly are as sick as our secrets.
All I learned through my childhood abuse was, don’t tell, don’t talk — try not to remember. You think that works? Nope!
“We played as children do. My brother and I were close – albeit with sexual overtones. We pretended and explored a lot together. This was the early ‘70s so there wasn’t much going on inside the house in the way of electronics, so you had to create your own fun. One time we scratched out a detailed menu for my parents with an imaginary restaurant running in our home kitchen. Mom and Dad were our first customers. It was fun! Our parents graciously played the roles we gave them, and it was good. If we lived in the house with the attitude of “things are fine and your pain isn’t showing,” we seemed to get along just fine.
One thousand eight hundred and ninety-five days after the murder, our fake family made headlines. My father murdered on June 8, 1968, and we adopted this little boy and appeared in the local paper on August 26, 1973. The riddle of my family couldn’t have been scripted. No person could have unraveled the demonic turmoil they hid.From the book A Prisoner by No Crime fo My Own