But it wasn’t ever about him, not really. I didn’t hate him because he called me a sinner. I didn’t hate him because he told me I was filthy and in need of redemption. I hated him because everything he said was true. Not because I fucked and let fuck for money. But because I’d killed a man who was a father to someone I cared about, even if he’d never been one to me. And because it wasn’t spontaneous. I’d spent most of my childhood and preteen years dreaming of murdering my father; it matters little that when the time came it was a different dad.
