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Aster
His name was William John Roberts and I killed him. I don't know what happened, why I did it. I had no reason to. Yet, I don't regret doing it. They act as if they understand, as if they can see the motive I didn't have. But they don't understand. Instead, they call him names like "kidnapper", "abuser" and "rapist". Heck, I can barely say those words about him without puking.
Us, on the other hand, called him "father" because he was taking care of us. Sure, he wasn't the best at it, but nobody is perfect, so it didn't really matter until now. Now I know what being loved by a family actually means.
After the incident or "my escape" as they like to call it, I had to beg not to be taken to the cops as father told us that they were bad people and that we should never go to them. Unfortunately, the people who found me by the edge of the forest I grew up in didn't listen to me and took me to the monsters father tried to protect us from. And they were exactly what I expected them to be - humans that only talked badly about father.
They said that I did a good thing by killing him when in reality I had no intention of doing such, I loved father after all. And he loved us just as much. He had a strange way of showing it but he was really sincere about it.
Back to the cops situation, they took me to a person called "psychiatrist" who tried to make me talk shit about father. But I was not that stupid. Father told us that if anything were to happen to him, we should keep our mouths shut to other people otherwise he'll be mad at us. And no one wants father to be mad, right?
So, as the good girl father used to say I was, I didn't say a word to anyone. After that, everyone started saying "poor girl, she was so traumatized she became mute". Those were the exact words the people that called themselves "adoptive family" first said to me.
This adoptive family was really weird. It was made up of a man, a woman, a boy who was older than me by a year and a little girl who seemed to be about 5 years old. They told me I could call them father, mother, brother and sister. But I couldn't possibly do such a thing. Father and brother were names that were already taken by two people who used to be in my life. I can't just replace them with these strangers. How could they ask me to do such a thing?
The other weird aspect about the adoptive family is that they asked me to write my name on a piece of paper. They said that just because I couldn't talk it didn't mean that I couldn't communicate with them. So I did. I wrote on the paper the name father used to call me: "girl".
"Yeah, we know that you're a girl." the man who tried to replace father said. "But we want to know your name. You can write your full name if it's easier for you." his face twisted in an expression that father used to wear - a smile.
But this one was different, it wasn't like the lovingly smile father would give me while playing with me, after emptying a bunch of beer bottles. The smile I was seeing on this stranger's face filled me with warmth. And it wasn't the warmth I would ask father for permission to release. This type of warmth was fuzzy and it didn't hurt as much.
I took the pen and wrote my whole name this time: "good girl". This answer didn't seem to their satisfaction though. They’re expressions changed in a few seconds. They looked similar to the one father had on his face when he saw me with the knife in my hand-Horror. They were scared. No, terrified of me. But I didn’t understand why. I didn’t have any weapon on me. I wasn’t covered in any left blood from my victim. And then it hit me.
They disliked the name father gave me so much that they were horrified by it. And they were so horrified they forced me onto a new one. This time, I was told to pick out a name. I wanted to choose the one name he used to call me-sister. But it wasn’t an option. So, instead they decided that I should take a test. They showed me a bunch of flowers.
They insisted I pick one. The one I liked most. And then I saw it. A purple flower with thin petals and a puffy yellow-ish center. I used to see them all the time in our little garden. But father would always pluck them out of the ground and stomp on them. They were the only colorful thing we had… But I’m sure father had a good reason to kill them.
Although, there was this one time he sneaked out in the garden and collected one of them. He brought it to me. I cherished it as much as I could. But, in the end it died on the bridge of my palm. Father was so mad when he found the dried petals under my pillow that he locked the only door to the garden and blocked the window view we had to the rest of the flowers.
“Aster” is what they decided to call me. Turns out that that’s the name of the pretty flowers I used to love so much. It’s a beautiful name… But it would have made father mad, so I didn’t accept it. At least, not that easily. Whenever I was asked to write my name on paper I wrote the same exact thing I did the very first time-”girl”. That way, nobody would be mad at me.
Although… This new name made me who I am today. I know that, deep down, he would have liked it too. If he knew the name of the flowers back then, I’m sure he would have yelled it at the top of his lungs while we danced in a garden full of purple flowers with thin petals and puffy yellow-ish center.
© Fram
Us, on the other hand, called him "father" because he was taking care of us. Sure, he wasn't the best at it, but nobody is perfect, so it didn't really matter until now. Now I know what being loved by a family actually means.
After the incident or "my escape" as they like to call it, I had to beg not to be taken to the cops as father told us that they were bad people and that we should never go to them. Unfortunately, the people who found me by the edge of the forest I grew up in didn't listen to me and took me to the monsters father tried to protect us from. And they were exactly what I expected them to be - humans that only talked badly about father.
They said that I did a good thing by killing him when in reality I had no intention of doing such, I loved father after all. And he loved us just as much. He had a strange way of showing it but he was really sincere about it.
Back to the cops situation, they took me to a person called "psychiatrist" who tried to make me talk shit about father. But I was not that stupid. Father told us that if anything were to happen to him, we should keep our mouths shut to other people otherwise he'll be mad at us. And no one wants father to be mad, right?
So, as the good girl father used to say I was, I didn't say a word to anyone. After that, everyone started saying "poor girl, she was so traumatized she became mute". Those were the exact words the people that called themselves "adoptive family" first said to me.
This adoptive family was really weird. It was made up of a man, a woman, a boy who was older than me by a year and a little girl who seemed to be about 5 years old. They told me I could call them father, mother, brother and sister. But I couldn't possibly do such a thing. Father and brother were names that were already taken by two people who used to be in my life. I can't just replace them with these strangers. How could they ask me to do such a thing?
The other weird aspect about the adoptive family is that they asked me to write my name on a piece of paper. They said that just because I couldn't talk it didn't mean that I couldn't communicate with them. So I did. I wrote on the paper the name father used to call me: "girl".
"Yeah, we know that you're a girl." the man who tried to replace father said. "But we want to know your name. You can write your full name if it's easier for you." his face twisted in an expression that father used to wear - a smile.
But this one was different, it wasn't like the lovingly smile father would give me while playing with me, after emptying a bunch of beer bottles. The smile I was seeing on this stranger's face filled me with warmth. And it wasn't the warmth I would ask father for permission to release. This type of warmth was fuzzy and it didn't hurt as much.
I took the pen and wrote my whole name this time: "good girl". This answer didn't seem to their satisfaction though. They’re expressions changed in a few seconds. They looked similar to the one father had on his face when he saw me with the knife in my hand-Horror. They were scared. No, terrified of me. But I didn’t understand why. I didn’t have any weapon on me. I wasn’t covered in any left blood from my victim. And then it hit me.
They disliked the name father gave me so much that they were horrified by it. And they were so horrified they forced me onto a new one. This time, I was told to pick out a name. I wanted to choose the one name he used to call me-sister. But it wasn’t an option. So, instead they decided that I should take a test. They showed me a bunch of flowers.
They insisted I pick one. The one I liked most. And then I saw it. A purple flower with thin petals and a puffy yellow-ish center. I used to see them all the time in our little garden. But father would always pluck them out of the ground and stomp on them. They were the only colorful thing we had… But I’m sure father had a good reason to kill them.
Although, there was this one time he sneaked out in the garden and collected one of them. He brought it to me. I cherished it as much as I could. But, in the end it died on the bridge of my palm. Father was so mad when he found the dried petals under my pillow that he locked the only door to the garden and blocked the window view we had to the rest of the flowers.
“Aster” is what they decided to call me. Turns out that that’s the name of the pretty flowers I used to love so much. It’s a beautiful name… But it would have made father mad, so I didn’t accept it. At least, not that easily. Whenever I was asked to write my name on paper I wrote the same exact thing I did the very first time-”girl”. That way, nobody would be mad at me.
Although… This new name made me who I am today. I know that, deep down, he would have liked it too. If he knew the name of the flowers back then, I’m sure he would have yelled it at the top of his lungs while we danced in a garden full of purple flowers with thin petals and puffy yellow-ish center.
© Fram
