I'm Glad My Father is Dead

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My father died two years ago. 

I don't miss him. 

He was a nuisance in my life. How I wish he was only a gambler that left my family with massive debt, or was caught cheating on my mom. 

He wasn't any of those things. 

He was a fucking serial killer. 

I thought my mother was joking when she told me the truth. And then she shocked me more when she told me that she was forced to change my name. I'm not a Janet. I'm a (redacted).

I asked her why my named had been changed. She hid her face from me, but I could see her tears. 

"He gave you that name," was all she said. 

I didn't blame her for taking away my real identity. I would have felt disgusted if my murderous partner had named my children. I didn't want to, but I eventually had to begin my own research on what his victim profile was. 

I was not expecting a range of genders. 

I assumed my dad would go after women only. He was quite the charmer, coming from my mother. I was shocked to see the number of victims he had. 

24. 

24 people dead. 

I couldn't believe how different his kills were. I thought killers only stuck to one method of killing, but he changed it up all the time. Authorities believed that he purposely did this, to keep himself from never being caught. I didn't want to admit it, but that was fucking genius. 

He was smarter than many fictional serial killers. When this thought had entered my head the first time, I ran to the bathroom toilet to throw up my lunch. My mother had found me lingering over the toilet. She did not comfort me. I didn't want her too. 

13 women. 

11 men. 

24 people in total. 

Who were these people? It made you wonder how many people grieved them. I regretted looking that part up later. It was hard to watch their families talk to the public, begging for anyone to come forward and look for their child. Their husband. Their wife. Their mother. Their father. 

Each of these people were somebody. 

And my father decided to take them away for good. 

I had watched multiple videos of my father online. Seeing him in court made me so uncomfortable. He wasn't smiling, but I could tell he was amused by everything taking place. That amusement was gone once his verdict was read. I don't know how he thought would get away with so many murders. My mother did tell me that my father was kind of stupid. 

"How he even got away with 24 murders was a mystery," my mother had said while drinking from a glass of wine. Her lips would be stained red. She had become a heavy drinker once I found out the truth. She would look at me completely wasted, and whisper in my ear:

"You look like him. Are you going to be a killer too?"

She would laugh afterwards, and start sobbing into her hands, her drink forgotten. I would not take the drink from her. That comment stung, and I would find myself constantly studying my reflection in the mirror. I hated what I saw. A pretty blonde, my mother would say. A blonde that can charm anyone, just like his silly fucking father, my mother would say. 

Whoever thought my insecurity would stem from knowing that your own father was a killer? 

I didn't know how to interact in school. How to make friends. I outcasted myself from everyone. I was afraid that I would start to look familiar to everyone. I'm not sure why. I was only two when my father was caught. Surely no one would know I'm his daughter. 

No one in school ever accused me of being a killer. Nor my teachers. So why was I so afraid? 

I think I was scared I would turn out just like him. Perhaps I was a monster, slowly blooming into something that would one day terrorize people. Would my victim count be the same like him? I had cried myself to sleep for many nights thinking of this, while my mother would be passed out on the couch, drunk. 

How my father loved my mother was a mystery to me. Why he never harmed either of us scared me. Were we spared because we were his family? Did he not want to harm me, because I was a part of his sick DNA? His bloodline that would one day continue his reign of terror?

Sometimes I wished I didn't exist. 

The world would have been better off without me in it. I'm a monster's cub, something that never have existed. I would give myself up to bring back any of his victims if I could. 

24 victims. 

How I wish that number wasn't so high. 

I can't stand my real name. I was scared to even whisper my own name, afraid my father would somehow appear, like I was summoning the boogeyman. I had fallen asleep from another crying montage, and I had woke up to find my mother pleading with strangers at her front door. 

My grandparents on my mother's side wanted custody of me. I was surprised that they had won…I guess my mother's drinking and watching over me had taken its toll. Not that I didn't notice. I was too busy wallowing in my own despair about my birth.

My grandparents had taken me in. That was when something in my life had shifted. I was happy for the first time in years. They did not treat me like a monster. Not like my mother did. They treated me like an actual human being. With feelings. I got the help I needed. I spoke to people that I did not expect to actually help me. I found myself no longer caring about being called (redacted).

I cherished that name, but my grandparents were still respectful about calling me Janet. They understood that calling me by my real name would take time. It did, but it wasn't as long as I expected. 

When I was about to head off to college, my grandparents were in a mess over saying goodbye. I told them that everything was going to work out. They hugged me and gave me kisses. I was going to be alright in the real world. I was hanging out in the store by myself, searching for last minute shopping that I needed to get done before I headed off to college. 

I bumped into someone by accident, and I was not expecting the person to be my mother. She looked horrible. Like an oil painting that was destroyed with age. She glared at me. 

"What the fuck are you doing here, you little monster? Are you here to haunt me now? I don't want you anywhere near me, Sara."

Even after all those years, she never got over what my father did. She allowed her anger and sorrow to destroy her, and she wanted to take me down with her. And this time, the mention of my real name did not faze me. Instead, I looked back at her and yelled:

"I'm glad my father is dead! Why can't you be happy?"

My mother had the look of someone that had been slapped across the face. 

I walked away. And that was the last time I saw her. 

It was for the best. 

Now, I can move on. 

And once again, I'm glad my father is dead. 

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Thank you for reading!

Emy Quinn