I don't now how old I was, but I remember that he did bad things to me.
He made me do bad things too.

"You can't tell your parents about this", he told me.
"They'll make me go to jail".

It didn't last long…in fact I'm not sure when it started or when it ended.
I guess it ended around the time his wife got sick.
I dunno.

Anyway, he's dead now.
He's finally dead.
It seems like I've been waiting for him to die forever…you know, revenge is a dish served best cold, or whatever the fuck that is expression is…

Ironically, he died on Christmas Eve…further proof that if there is a God, he's one twisted fuck.
Not surprisingly, I chose to skip the wake and funeral.
Go figure.

The thing that gets me is my blasé reaction to the whole thing.
It's like I feel rather indifferent towards the whole thing…
I mean, shouldn't I have much stronger feelings, one way or another?
I should be pissed, or I should be thrilled the bastard's dead! I should break down and cry because my one time opressor has finally left this mortal coil and now supposedly will have to face the ultimate judgment.

Why don't I really feel anything? Maybe because I don't know how or even if what he did to me had any long reaching effects. I mean, I know they probably did, being that I'm a perv and that I cringe when I sing along to Metallica's cover of "So What" ("I fucked the Queen, I fucked Bach, I've even sucked an old man's cock")

He died in his 90's…maybe he didn't even remember anything anymore.
Maybe living that long on this brutal fucked up planet was more than enough punishment.
I dunno what to think.
But yeah, he's dead.