post-its. She has her own system. Blue for her favorite sex scene, which we have played out a few. I never want to stop doing that. Red for a violent scene. Yellow for ones that made her smile. Orange for the ones that made her cry. And if you open up a book—any book, it doesn’t matter—there is always a sentence highlighted on every page. It’s as if she dissects the words and stores them in her brilliant mind, and I’m envious of her ability to do that.
I hope one day I can do the same. The only thing I can do right now is struggle with kid’s picture books and write my name and Daphne’s. It’s hard not to be embarrassed by it, but she reads books that are four hundred pages and then she somehow has the ability not to judge me but treat me with compassion as she teaches me how to read.
I sound like an idiot sounding out those simple words. But when I get frustrated, she’s there to soothe me. She has all the patience in the world and that’s the only reason I’m able to get through our daily sessions.
“Good Morning, Happy.” I tap the glass of his tank that he is nearly too big for, which reminds me that I need to start Happy’s Haven. He is getting too big. He gives me a wide smile, showing me all of his teeth. People think he wants to eat me, but I know better. Happy and I have a connection. I bring my nose to the cold glass and Happy turns around and presses his nose against it too. “Who’s a good boy? You are. You want a treat?” I keep my voice low, so I don’t wake Daphne. It’s important that she sleeps.
I’m going to have to look into the truth of her father. I believe in my gut that her dreams are a way for her mind to tell her what really happened, and I swear to God, I’m going to be that man’s worst nightmare.
He thinks he can inflict fear? He doesn’t know true fear. When I get my hands on him—not if but when—he’s going to pray for a quick death. And you know what I’m going to do?
Tell him I’m agnostic so his prayers don’t mean anything to me. And then I’m going to take my time slicing him. I only believe in what I can kill and Daphne.
That’s all I’ll ever need.
What’s belief if you can’t see it? What is faith if you can’t touch it? Those concepts are too complex. I’m too simple of a man to try to understand them.
Taking a deep breath, I calm myself so I don’t fly out of the clubhouse and take matters into my own hands. I unscrew the treat jar and dig my fingers inside to grab a piece of bull tongue, then toss it in the tank. Happy hisses, flinging his tail back and forth through the water, then snaps his jaws shut after he catches the treat.
“Good boy,” I say to him, wishing I had his haven ready. I’ll feed him live animals then, and he can hunt. He’ll like that. I know I like it when I hunt, so it only makes sense that he would too.
I give a tap to the tank before turning around and walking toward the closet. I swing the doors open and stare at the filing cabinet. A lot of emotions are coursing through me right now as I stare at it, but the biggest thing I feel is betrayal. I’m not over what the guys did, breaking into my privacy and opening wounds all over again. Maybe in time I will, but right now? I have the urge to kill every single one of them who saw what is in these journals. I haven’t drawn since.
I’ve been too scared, which is something I don’t like to admit. I never get scared, but those journals hold nightmares that create the torture in hell. I don’t want to see what used to exist, but I want to start drawing the good things in my life now that I have them.
I have good things.
That’s so hard for me to understand.
“Good things,” I mutter to myself as I reach for the gray drawer and open it, seeing dozens of black books. Some are worn and tattered, the edges curled up and wrinkled, while some are new and barely opened. I bend down and grab a