from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!
Have you ever told a member of your family that you wanted them out of your life? If so, why?
And, I mean, I meant it at the time. I'm not sure if I mean it anymore. I definitely meant it when I said it. A little while after that, I wanted to take it back. I don't know what's right, though, anymore.
See. Here's the thing.
I used to be sick. I'm still kind of sick, but not because of the same sick I used to be. It's because I'm still trying to work the medicine out of my system. If I gave it up, altogether, I'd probably...well, have an attack. But attacks are what I had when I thought it was still medicine. It wouldn't be an attack, now, it would be...what does he call it? Oh, right, duh. Withdrawl. I would have withdrawls.
...I should start over.
I guess I can't really say I used to be sick because what I "used" to be sick with was a blood disease that it turns out I never actually had. Who knows if my mom even had it, even though I was always told that I inherited it from her. My dad told me that, at least. But only because no one else could ever tell me anything because, for seventeen years, my dad was the only person I ever knew, ever talked to. Well, okay, he was the only person whoever talked to me.
Wait. Even that's kind of not true.
But for all intents and purposes, for seventeen years, my dad was the only other person in my immediate world. I knew there were other people, outside, but I wasn't allowed outside. That's how sick he told me I was. So sick that I couldn't even leave my room, much less the house. Sometimes I believed him, too. I think I believed him more when I was little, but I guess that makes sense. Well. No, I believed him about a lot of things, but particularly the sick thing was what I didn't always believe. The being-too-sick-to-leave-my-room-bit, anyway. Because I left my room a bunch of times. I didn't really poke around the house, too much, but I did take the tunnel to my mom's tomb. I wore my gasmask in there, for a while. Well, I always wear it in the tunnel. That's just common sense and there's dirt and a lot of gross stuff, probably, to be inhaling. I mean, I'm the only one who uses it and I know I
don't clean it when I do. So, safety first.
Okay, well, maybe someone else uses it sometimes, too, but I know he'd never clean, either.
When I was really little, I used to visit my mom's crypt a lot, actually, even though I was sick. My dad even took me, most of the times I went. When I was seven, though, he told me I had to stop, though, because the air quality outside was too gross, I guess, for me to breathe. It'd trigger an attack or something and that could be dangerous if I went down there, especially without him. But, since he spent most of my life being far too busy for me, he never wanted to take me, after that. So I started sneaking out. I even wore my mask, for a while, in the tomb, but that got uncomfortable and made it really hard to eat. Nothing bad happened when I stopped. Sometimes my chest would get a little tight, but usually that was because I'd forgotten (or hadn't wanted) to take my medicine earlier. And it never got so bad that I passed out or anything. ...Most of the time.
I guess kind of
in Dad's defense, the first time I actually tried to leave the tomb, I did
have an attack, but later, he told me it was because I hadn't taken my medicine. Which is a lie, I definitely remember taking it before I went down to visit Mom. But he also told me I hadn't been outside at all and dreamed the whole thing up. Which was also definitely a lie because I'm pretty sure GraveRobber isn't someone I could have ever imagined, for starters. I'm pretty sure the reason I had that "attack" might have had something to do with the fact that I was being chased by GeneCops and hiding in a mass grave and seeing real dead bodies for the first time and being shoved around once I got caught. All that, just to catch one silly bug.
The good news is that I did catch the bug and he survived the whole ordeal, just like I did, in one piece. He has his own shadowbox and everything. :)
I got definitive proof, later that day, actually, that my dad was lying to me about pretty much everything. Like GraveRobber. Who is very definitely real. And other things, too. Like about how Mom didn't actually die from the blood disease I "had", but because Dad killed her. I still don't know if it was an accident because no one ever told me how
he killed her, but I guess it makes me feel better to assume that it was
an accident because I know he loved her very, very much (more than he ever loved me) and I don't think he would outright kill someone he loved. I think he wanted to spend a long time with her. Maybe he would have liked me better, if he'd been able to. I don't know.
And I'm getting off the subject.
Anyway. I think
he probably killed Mom by accident, but what he definitely didn't do by accident was lie to me about how sick I was. Which, it turned out, was not at all. Well. Okay, kind of. But I was sick because he made me sick. Because my medicine was never medicine, it was low-grade poison. Never enough to kill me, just enough to keep me sick so I'd have to always depend on him, so I'd never be able to leave him. Which meant he'd also lied about all the times he tried to find something he said he thought would cure me. Whatever he put in those, he just made me even sicker
with so I would be tricked into thinking I should just keep taking my regular "medicine". He...never wanted me to get better.
GraveRobber explained the problem with my medicine, once. I guess people can get addicted to just about anything and my dad gave me so much of that poison, I got addicted to it. So it kept me pretty weak, most of the time, but it also made my body freak out when I wasn't getting enough of it. That's why it seemed like my attacks were always worse when I didn't take it. Because my body was starting to go through a withdrawl.
I think I got a little ahead of myself. I told my dad I wanted him to go away and to die before I knew all of that. I wanted him to die because he lied to me about being a doctor. He wasn't a doctor, at all. All those days and nights he spent being too busy to spend time with me, to take care of me, to be a real dad instead of a jailer, he wasn't caring for patients at the hospital. He wasn't giving new organs to those in need. He was murdering people. He was ripping organs out of their bodies and bringing them back to stupid, evil, old Rotti Largo at GeneCo. My dad was a Repo Man. You'd think that was bad enough, wouldn't you? But the whole reason he was there? Was to kill Blind Mag and take her eyes. Just because she wanted to stop being Mr. Largo's puppet and live her own life.
FYI, Blind Mag? She was not only the most beautiful, amazing, wonderful, talented singer in the whole history of the world (my favourite), but also MY GODMOTHER
. My mom's best friend. Yeah, that's right. My dad knew that I was obsessed
with Mag for my whole life and never
bothered to tell me any of that. And she never came to tell me herself, until that night, because he told her
that I died with Mom.
Ugh. I'm getting really, really, really mad again, just thinking about it.
Mag was already dead, though, by the time my dad could have gotten to her. I want to be glad that she went out on her own terms, I guess, because it would be unfair to not want her to be free the only real way she could have been...but...I still don't know how to feel about that, either.
That's when I told my dad to get away from me. For forever. And I wished he would have. But then I found out all the other stuff (on stage, even, in front of everyone in the audience and, like, everyone in the whole world who was watching the Genetic Opera that night) and wished it even harder.
...And I got what I wished for, even though by the time it happened, I'd kind of stopped wishing it as much.
Like I said. I don't know if it was the right thing. I didn't want him to die. But I think nothing would be different if he hadn't. And I'm glad everything's different. I'm glad that, soon, I won't have to worry about being sick anymore. I'm glad that I'll probably have hair, soon (I hope!). I'm glad that I can have friends and that I have someone who wants to help take care of me, but doesn't want to keep me locked away and helpless. I'm glad I'm learning how to be a real person, a real adult.
Sorry, Daddy. I never could have done any of this with you. But I still love you, I think, most of the time.