When I was young, right before Damian was born, my father took me to a doctor. He thought there was something wrong with me. He thought I was… defective. I remembered the strange questions they asked me. They asked if I like to hurt animals. Or people. All my answers had been no.
When they told my father there was nothing wrong with me, he refused to believe it. I remembered what I felt then as I watched him tell them that I never cried, that I watched children fight without doing anything about it. That I smiled when I saw blood, but I wasn't smiling because I enjoyed seeing people hurt. I just… I enjoyed the sight. I loved watching things come apart.
My mother insisted there was nothing wrong with me, that I would grow out of it. But my father fell deaf to all those words. He refused
