I cried when I found out he was gone, but not for the right reasons. I cried tears of joy. I was happy the miserable son of a bitch was finally dead. I didn’t kill him or anything, unless wishful thinking is punishable by law.
I figured I owed him one last disrespectful goodbye, so I found out where the funeral was. I get done up real big, applying thick makeup to the face he loved so much when it was far too young and bare. Then, I put a thrifted suit onto the body that he had wanted when it was a child’s frame. I step back and peer at the mirror, and a clown looks back at me, just as he had made me feel all those years ago.
Perfect.
I drive to the church, then spend an embarrassing amount of time in the parking lot working up the courage to walk inside. Once I finally do, I’m instantly met with stares. People are lined up to lay roses on his casket. I stand in line, one hand clenched in a fist by my side, the other holding a bright red balloon. When it’s my turn, I tie the balloon to a nearby post. I hope a child will take interest in it and steal it, so that a child could finally take something from him.
“You need to leave.” a stern voice says to me.
I turn around to find the woman from the photographs on his desk, the ones he had purposely avoided looking at during our little talks: his wife.
I stare at her for a second, seeing how grief has become her. Her beautiful, bright features are dimmed by a darkness that could only come from the death of a beautiful soul. I’m confused, that isn’t the case here.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but my husband was a good man. He doesn’t deserve this shit.”
At that moment it hits me: she didn’t know. She never knew. He ruined my life and just went on living his, unscathed.
I rush out before the tears can fall from my eyes. I don’t even make it to my car, sitting on the curb, finally letting the sobs escape me.
How could he just get away with it? He ruined my fucking life. I’ve spent the rest of my life fearing that it was somehow my fault, that I somehow led him on. I’ve changed my personality completely to ensure that I never “accidentally lead someone on” ever again. I’ve carried that shame with me, worn it like the makeup now tear streaked and smearing all over my face. He knew he was the only adult I trusted, and he took advantage of it. He told me I was special, that I was more mature than the other kids my age. The kids…I was a fucking kid. I was fourteen, and he was my teacher, someone paid to teach me, and he wasn’t even good at his job. All I ever learned from that man was how to truly and deeply blame myself.
And his wife…his poor wife. She never even knew. There could have been others, there could have been more with others, and she’s completely clueless.
Just then, to confirm my suspicions, a girl a few years younger than me walks up with a small sign in her hand, reading “PEDO” in big red letters.
I stop her, “His wife doesn’t know.”
Her fearless posture weakens, “He just got away with it?”
I nod, “Yeah, he just fucking got away with it.’
She slowly walks over and takes a seat beside me on the curb. After a few seconds of staring at the pavement, she begins to cry.
I look at her and sigh, “I know, I know.”
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