The Killer In The Mirror

To my younger self, you deserved a lot better

Author’s Note 

I didn’t expect myself to be writing a book like this so young. As a child, I always thought that my life would blossom into something beautiful; the disillusionment I experienced in the years after destroyed that hope. Everything that follows is my attempt at making sense of it all. But in order for any of it to truly make sense, I must clarify that I spent as much time in my head as I did in my life. I used my imagination to escape the reality I was facing though there came a point when I had to take stock of all I had lived through to fully comprehend my own sense of character. This book is a compilation of those two worlds—my fantasy and my reality. You, as a reader, will see both the worst and best my brain has to offer about my life thus far. So, I’m sorry in advance . . . it’s not going to be easy.

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy and identity of those involved.

Chapter 1

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, 2007. I was five years old when I got lost on that beach. I sat at the edge of the water playing in the sand when I looked up and my family was nowhere to be found. I can’t remember being scared, just melancholic. So, like many times before, I had to make do for myself. I got up and walked in the direction I believed my family to be in. I stared at the footprints I left in the wet sand and passed by several families that felt unlike my own. Happy . . . content . . . agreeable.

Eventually, I was stopped by a lifeguard who spotted me alone just . . . walking. I can’t remember what she said to me, but she was friendly and very pretty. Blonde hair, presumably blue eyes, and large breasts. She took me by the hand to her elevated guard chair and gave me a lollipop. I sat ten feet above everyone else while she radioed someone about the situation. Apparently, my family had been looking for me for the past hour and I had wandered for at least a mile in the opposite direction down the shore.

A while later, a Jeep pulled up with my father in the passenger seat. I still remember the yellow and black swim trunks he wore; he wore them for years. By then I had finished my sucker and gave the lifeguard the trash. He carried me back to the Jeep in his arms and we rode back to our spot. I clung to him the whole time but I don’t remember being scared. I don’t remember feeling anything but sadness. I couldn’t be sure why and I can’t think of any reason why I was sad instead of scared.

There was something foreboding about it, yet my child mind hadn’t comprehended that. I just knew I felt like I didn’t belong. Some way . . . somehow.

Chapter 2

I was once told I’d be the perfect man if I had a six-pack and was just a few inches taller. I tried to believe it for the longest time but something inside me constantly rejected it. It wasn’t until I was twenty-one that the contrast between my self-perception and others’ perceptions of me became obvious. Where others saw a kind, sweet, intelligent man, I saw a sadistic rapist and substance abuser unworthy of love.

I could lie and say I wasn’t always so hard on myself but from the time I started middle school, I felt the internal pressure of both my parents and society begin to weigh heavily on me. I still identified as a girl then but I knew I wasn’t entirely sure of that. Not to mention, I never liked lying so I never did. Never will. The only time I can remember lying in any sense was back in October 2015 when I was sexually molested on a bus after school. And I didn’t lie. I just didn’t say anything about it.

Although I eventually came to terms with what happened, I don’t believe there is any amount of time that can remove everything I felt that 25th day. The unnerving anxiety of how close he got while we waited for the late bus; the deepening confusion of feeling his hands roam over my clothes; and ultimately, the heartbreaking devastation of his icy hands cupping my breasts and vulva. The entire time he touched me, I ignored it and instead tried to focus on the completely ironic song I was listening to.

“Love Me Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding blasted in my right ear as his quiet, breathy moans echoed in my left. By the time he removed his hands from me, the orchestral synth notes

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