I don’t want to pretend when I get home to Henri. I don’t want to have a panic attack any time we’re around strangers. I don’t want to be this person I’m discovering inside me. The one who can rationalize away the things she’s done. The one who even takes pleasure in some of it. Because sometimes, when I picture the shock on my aunt’s face as I plunged the knife into her chest or remember the guards’ screams as they burned alive, I feel warmed by it. That vicious place inside me sated, momentarily. There are times when it seems to be the only thing that brings me joy. Henri deserves better,
...more
