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...