Why?

I remember the happy times when I was younger. Mama and Papa, each holding my hand while we strolled the beach coast. Those were my earliest memories; The best memories. I guess that all changed when he was in my life as if he had done nothing. That was when things changes, when I changed. My hatred for him grew, as well as my love for Mama. Help me.

I remember when I was younger, Mama had told me that monsters are not real; she promised me. But later, Mama nor me didn’t know that he was a monster.

I wanted nothing but him to severely suffer. Like when I did when he'd take out all his anger on me. Showing his hatred toward his own daughter. Giving me his pain. I wanted this wretched world to make him dead.

Mama didn't know, we played a fantasy role where our family was the happiest out there. But really, in reality it wasn't.

It was his fault. Everything that is in my book is his fault. Everything that the future holds is his fault. It’s all his fault.

I don’t want this pain anymore. Save me.

October 16, 1953

I was greeted by a plate thrown in my face when I entered my house. That was the very first time. He never got drunk in front of Mama, only when she was on her business trips. I didn't even know he drank. Grabbing me by the neck, he yanked me on the floor. He kept yelling how much he despised me. I received kicks on my head, and punches thrown at my face. My hands struggled to tug his grip off my neck. I couldn't move, I was in too much shock. I didn’t-couldn't- run or scream. I didn’t tell anyone. There was no reason. That was when I knew what reality was like, hitting me hard. Like a bullet straight in the head.

After that day, my hatred began; Only grew. I didn’t know such existed inside me. The next morning, he wasn't there. I went through the day normally. Going to University, my classes, study. For once I had to pretend that everything was fine. What I didn't know was that I had to pretend for the rest of my life. For the two weeks Mama was gone, I went through torture. Hell. Beatings every day. Cuts and bruises all over my body. Mama only called once, and in that time he turned into an angel, and then resumed in being the devil itself. He told me that if I told Mama, he would get a knife to her throat.

The day Mama came home, we became a fake family. After those weeks, I never wanted Mama to go away. I only loved her in this world. That was what I had decided. Mama was the only being whom I loved in this world. Before, I had loved Papa. But now he was just a stranger. A stranger who I lived with. He showed his true colours. His hate toward me. I always ask myself this question every day: Why? Why did he hate me? Why did Mama leave me for weeks? Why! At first I thought it was the alcohol and drugs, but no. How did Mama not suspect anything?

The first thing he said to Mama on her return was that I was always studying hard (as usual). He said that I kept falling from not sleeping that much as I was studying, and kept falling which was why I had so many cuts and bruises. That was the story that I had to play along with when Mama was here. I hoped she would stay here forever, and never go, so I wouldn't have to go through that again. I didn't want to be alone with him. Didn’t want her to leave me all alone. Don’t leave me.

She left again. Only after some weeks she just came back. Mama, the only person whom I loved and the only one that loved me back, left me with him, once again. I remember before she departed she had said, “I love you Harper.” While giving me a kiss on both cheeks.

“Then don't go,” I wept. Tears started falling down my bruised face, and it stung my cuts. She never understood the real reason. She knew how much I loved her, not the pain I felt. At first her leaving left me depressed, as I loved her so much, but now, it was because of him. After giving him a kiss, she left the house with her large suitcase.

I guessed what would happen when she had left. He immediately yanked at my hair.

“Great job for keeping your mouth quiet,” he started, “For that, I’ll give you today.” That was because he hasn't drank anything. Or not. Reality came back to me, this time it would stay for a month. Another month of pain. No. I went through this pain for years.

March 24, 1951

Why did Mama leave me? Doesn't she love me, as I do her? Those questions circled in my head every time she left me with him.

“Bye Harper,” she exclaimed with a smile across her face. Those were the words I got used too. “This one's short! Only a few days.” Hooray! I thought sarcastically. This time we dropped her off at the airport, and saw her leave. I didn't even know what the job was that she had to keep leaving me. I didn't cry anymore, I was used to it. Instead I let out a sigh.

We walked to the car in silence, with him in front of me. My feet ached. Was it the walking? He got into his fancy car.

“Walk back,” was what he said when he started the car engine. Before I could answer him he drove off. It was past six p.m, and the walk back was at least miles away.

It was pitch black. The only light that shone was moonlight. I had started to like the dark nights, the nights that spread darkness and covered all that was broken, as it was much like my soul. It hid all the light and pain. My mind was all over the place. How I had missed Mama. How quickly a person can change of one event. Carrying on my thoughts now, taking a shortcut through a busy plaza, I noticed I was being followed. Yet I carried on. Nothing mattered anymore. When the plaza was nearing the end, there became fewer and fewer people. The stranger confronted me. He was dressed all in black, and in the darkness, I couldn't make out the features of his face, He looked like a black figure. Even with all the streetlights, I couldn’t make out the features on the other strangers. He stood in front of me.

“Harper,” the stranger began, “I have a deal.” He stopped, I assumed he was waiting for my reply. I had no idea who this stranger was, or how he knew my name. I tried turning around, when the man grabbed my arm. “Please,” he muttered, “It benefits you.” How could anything benefit me now… except for Mama never leaving me? I thought.

“How do you know me and what do you want?” was all I could say. I must have sounded pathetic, as he let out a little laugh.

“Your father-” my eyes widened when he uttered the words ‘MY FATHER.’ Poison.

“My father?” I interrupted in a tone of a child, pretending to be concerned I let him continue.

He was straight up, “I can make your father die.” I stared at the faceless figure that stood in front of me. How did he know…? A smile was on my face. All my pain would end, with him gone. I remembered what he'd always say, ‘why were you born’ ‘I've always despised you’. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, imagining it. Nothing. Mama.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I questioned the stranger.

“You won't,” was his reply, “You'll just have to use that hatred toward your father to make me move forward.” The man kept saying ‘my father’ instead of how I used ‘him’. He took out his black gloved hand and waited. “You will have the results when your mother returns. I promise that it will be painful.” I smiled once again. Pain. Him going through pain. How I longed for no more pain.

I shook the strangers hand and started to walk away, when he called my name.

“Harper?” He called out. I turned around with my eyes watery. “I only ask for one thing,” he went through his black coat to get something out. It was a pen. “I wish for you to write for me.” He held his hand with the one in it in my direction.

“What about?”

“Your life.” I paused for a moment.

I grabbed the pen from his hand and a tingling sensation arose from my hand to my neck. “I'll only start once he is gone.” The figure nodded. I put the pen in the inside of my coat while questioning him. “Anyway, how do you know about me?” When I looked up from my coat to where he was standing, there was only emptiness. The man was no longer in my presence. I was left in a busy plaza, left with confusion. I collapsed on the floor.

I woke up screaming. I was in my room. A familiar place. My depressing room. Everything ached. I felt exhausted. That dream... felt too real to be fake. I looked into the mirror. Glancing at myself, a red stain showed on my neck.

I went through 4 more days of misery. The routine of what happens when Mama is gone. All that was in my mind was when he was going to die. I remembered the strangers words: “I promise that it will be painful.” The day Mama came home, we once again, for which I hoped for the last time, played our roles. The excuse of my clumsiness of once again, my cuts and bruises.

The next day, Papa wasn't there. When I woke up in Mama's arms he wasn't at home. I smiled. Mama woke up and saw me smiling.

“Why are you smiling my child?” She had asked me. I looked at her.

“Why not? When you are home, I can always smile.” I touched the stain on my neck.

An envelope came in the mail. It only had our address on it and a neat print that stated: To Harper Valbert. I opened it and there was a letter and another envelope inside.

Harper Valhert,

From your father's absence, I hope you now believe me. In the other envelope is proof of what I had promised. Please begin the story of your life, from what your can remember your happy memories as a child, and painful ones now. I did my part of the promise, will you do yours? Make sure to use the pen. I will be waiting.

The letter wasn't signed off with a name, except with an oozing red ink stamp. I opened the other small envelope and found images inside. They were of him, brutally mutilated. There were three. The first with millions of cuts, a finger missing and an eye gone. I didn’t gag like how normal people would. The second with cuts and bruises all over his body. The last was the most gruesome of them all. He lay on the floor, eyes open with only his head (with no eyes), and his stomach to toro remained. Blood was everywhere. On the back of the last photos, in neat printing it wrote:

He was alive and awake when this was done.

I felt wicked, as I was satisfied. I never knew I could have a feeling like this.

Mama was asleep on the sofa, laying on my shoulder. I carefully placed her down, and kissed her forehead while saying a silent prayer for her. Creeping to my room sturred something in me, a spark. I sprawled out on my chair. I leaned toward my desk, and took out the pen from the coat black coat I wore on our encounter. Engraved on it was Victor Vlensime. A pack of lined papers were stacked on my desk. I got the pen and began the story with the red inked pen, my story:

I remember the happy times when I was younger. Mama and Papa, each holding my hand while we strolled the beach coast. Those were my earliest memories, the best memories…

Mama cried of his disappearance. She didn't know.

“He's left me!” She would yell. I would comfort her. It pierced my ‘heart’. I wish I could tell her the truth, but that would put her in pain, and I didn't want her to suffer...like me.

She didn't go on anymore trips, so stayed with me, cared for me. No more leaving me alone.

But I had to write my story.

“Don't worry Mama,” I would say. “I love you so much and will never leave you.”

Sometimes she'd see me writing, assuming I was studying sand would say,

“Your hard at work as usual!”

I wouldn't turn my head to look at her, but answer back, still writing with a “Yeah.” That was when things began to change. Everything.

I stopped going to university, instead I wrote my story.

I wrote my story.

This left Mama worried, and alone. I gave her the excuse of exam studying or illness. I never left my desk, only ate what Mama brought to me, but never left. Help me. I couldn't stop, I couldn't control myself anymore as if being taken over. Let me be with Mama! Who am I? Someone, help me!

After a few days- no weeks into my story, Mama came in and complained to me.

“My dearest child, Harper, you must stop studying now. You are missing out on the world! Papa is now gone. You leave me alone. Are you not sad?” Yes. Me. Sad he is gone? What little did she know. Mama took the paper I was working on away and starting talking to me. I didn't listen to her. I couldn't listen to her. I flinched at the paper being taken away. My mother, my dearest mother, the only person whom I'd loved in my life, for years with all my damaged heart, was in the way of me and my story. I love you Mama. I must break free. Mama came to me, and wrapped her arms around me. “Come back to me.” She wept, still holding my page. I grabbed the scissors in my desk and pierced it through her chest. I was crying. No! She winced while collapsing on the floor. I went down with her, holding her wound, tears falling down my face and on the ground. Like rain splattering on the ground. Before dying, Mama looked into my eyes, what she thought was Harper's eyes. What she saw was not her daughter, but the eyes of a stranger.

I took the page from her fallen hand with my bloody hand, then started laughing with tears in my eyes.

“Don't worry Mama,” I stuttered, “I will finish my story.” I stumbled back onto my chair and began writing once again:

“My child you must stop studying, you are missing out on the world!”...

I stopped sleeping. As I wrote, with endless tears fell on the paper. I just want to die. I had to live: for my story.

The strangers eyes were bloodshot, and as thin as a twig. Hairy greasy, with red lines across the body. Yellow blotches showed on the skin, and the deep veins could be seen from a mile. I continued my story. I hadn't moved from my desk for what seemed like days, or was it years? I only wrote, day and night. But now, my story was nearing the end:

My story is nearing the end now. I must go to where Mama is now, I need to be with her now. The only one whom I love in this wretch world. I want to continue but there is nothing left for me to write accept me dying. I leave my pen in this world. I don't feel any more pain. Thank you Victor.

I drop the pen, and finally rise from my desk, stomping to the kitchen like a newborn child. I take hold of a butcher knife from the knife stack, and cut off my fingers, one by one. There is no pain. Thank God I won't go through anymore pain. Thank God! No more pain. I'm very tired now. I'll rest with Mama now, knowing that I won't have any more pain. I slump down onto the floor, waiting to go to Hell.

I wrote the last word, watching the red ink sink into the paper. My story was now finished. I drop the pen, and finally rise from my desk, stomping to the kitchen like a newborn child. Help me! I find the perfect tool, a butcher knife. No! Finding out what I should do with it, I chop off my thumb. I feel no pain. Instead, I laugh with tears still streaming down my face.

“Where's the pain!” I chop off the other fingers, thinking I would feel pain, but no. Finally.

I now lay there on the floor, waiting to go to Hell for the sin I committed. I basically killed a person. I don't regret anything. He deserved it. I touch my neck, for the last time. Blood came out of my neck. The mark is not there anymore. I slump down with a smile on my face. Only a single blood tear rolled down my face, and crumples to the ground. It was different...

A memory. Mama was laughing with me while baking Papas birthday cake. When we surprised him, he burst out his big, bright smile. I hadn't seen that kind of smile since. We were a happy family. One where there were our ups and downs. But in the end always happy. Love ... but memories are in the past. Where you cannot go back. Even if the memories gaining now are tearing you apart...

 

I walked into the house, without any keys, and I must say it was magnificent! Everything was in a neat order and rather large. I placed my black outfit on a chair as I wandered around. Stumbling into the kitchen, there she was. Harper, eyes opened lay on the ground, blood pouring out from her fingers. A smile was on her face.

“Oh my! It worked!” I bent down loser to her, closed her eyes, and placed a handkerchief on her skinny, pale face. Rising, I made my way upstairs to her room. There was another corpse, I presumed to be her mother. “Gets better and better,” I whispered with approvement. In a room, a lonely little room, on a desk was the manuscript. I picked it up and headed downstairs to the sofa. Carefully sitting down, I began to read:

I remember the happy times when I was younger. Mama and Papa, each holding my hand while we strolled the beach coast. Those were my earliest memories, the best memories…

After reading the whole thing, I carefully placed it in a folder and give an applause.

“Well done! I must say, I was taken aback but!...” I carefully dressed myself in my coat, and headed out the door with the folder. Pathetic.

 

Epilogue

Victor Vlensime was a person in Harper’s mind all the time, controlled by him. She made an excuse to say that she didn't torture her father. She was mental, became the first time she was abused by her father. She couldn't handle the pain, nor could she handle being alone. Her mother was a figure of whom Harper loved so dearly, but in the end had to kill her, as she was possessed by Victor. Victor Vlensime is an author. Steal people's lives, takes all their pain and creates stories. He isn't human. He noticed Harper’s pain and took the opportunity for a story. He possessed her to write a story, and if anyone came in the way between her and it, they would die by their hands. In the end, when Harper finished the book, she knew she was going to die, as that was what Victor wanted. All of his victims die by their own hands, yet it is Victor that possessed them too.

February 20, 1958

“Victor Vlensime if I may say, where did your inspiration come from?”

“I must say that all of this is merely fiction. The inspiration came from a girl I met- a long time ago- that despised the father…”

At the end of the interview, Victor as exhausted, and he began to become bored. He wanted a story. In a plaza, he followed a man. Now this man as having trouble with his wife, who kept stealing money from him, and having affairs. Money and woman these days. Humans… He approached the man in the night.

“Daniel,” he began, “I have a deal for you.” The man turned around, waiting for the stranger to say the deal. The look in his eyes showed nothing. Daniel had lost all hope. The man was straight up, “I can make your wife go away.” He saw the mans face change. His eyes widened out, and face lit up. Victor, inside all that dark clothing, without Daniel seeing him, smiled. Pathetic humans. That was what Victor had always thought of these kind of people.

June 3, 1958

Victor sat next to Daniel's corpse on the sofa, and began reading his manuscript:

Nobody loves me. Not my father who abandoned me, mother who left me for another man, nor my wife who steals and sleeps with thousands of men. I've had no happy bits in life, only anguish and pain…

Finishing the thing, he placed it in a folder.

“I'm impressed,” he yelled, “I didn't think you'd come out with an interesting story so quick! Very different from...” Victor gazed at the blood that came from Daniels neck. Placing a handkerchief on his face, he carefully dressed himself in his coat, and stepped outside the house and into the dark night. Pathetic.

Author Notes: This is the REALITY

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