A strange one
One of my strangest experiences so far was the funeral of my next-door neighbour when I was 17. He was a grandad, grew tomatoes in his back garden, was well liked by all the neighbours, you get the picture. The church was full, my mum and I sat in the second row right behind his wife and listened while the vicar spoke at length about his life, what a wonderful family man he was and how he'd be greatly missed. Not by me however as the dirty old bastard had seen fit to make my life hell by regularly touching me up etc between the ages of about six and 12, when he'd lost interest. Unfortunately due to the fact that no one but me knew this, and I was still living at home at the time, I had to go to the funeral.

I just remember it being the strangest mix of emotions - I couldn't decide if I was glad the bastard was dead or disappointed with myself that I'd never told anyone and let him get away with it, or angry that his suffering was over even though he'd left me with painfully low self esteem and various other issues that still affect me today (cheers mate). In the end I think I just sat there staring into the back of wifey's head and trying not to lose it. I made it, too, although there was a bit of a close moment when my mum leaned over, squeezed my hand and said 'it's a shame isn't it? At least he's had a good life.'

She still doesn't know to this day and that makes me feel sick with guilt.

That's not a very nice story is it, sorry. Back with kittens and happy trees soon.

Apologies for length and killing the mood a bit.
(Samara Morgan is a small blue thing, like a marble or an eye, Thu 11 May 2006, 15:51, Reply)