Pregnant with death Chapter 3

Wednesday

18.

Don’t you think revenge is a good reason to live? I only lived for revenge. Would you be happy if I killed myself because of those who hurt me? Would your conscience have moved if instead of being a suicide bomber, I had been a thirteen-year-old ‘girl’, a rape victim, who committed suicide? Every rape and harassment masculinised me. That’s the worst thing; at some point you turn into the one who defiles you.

Would you want to be like that? Would you want to bear the characteristics of the so-called people who defile you? Months later I was smiling like my rapist. It was as if the bastard was raping me four days a week to transform me into himself and reproduce himself. I couldn’t look in mirrors. I couldn’t stand the truth. It was like the truth was raping me. The mirrors played with my pride and humiliated me. When you start seeing your own face as the face of a stranger, a stranger in need of compassion, there is nothing left for a person to see. I had turned into the man who beat me four days a week, who raped me, who put a gun to my head so that I could breathe his stench. Could there be a greater punishment than that? The boys who said I was a “tomboy” and the girls who said I walked like a rude uncle, who knows what they were saying behind my back. I wanted to vomit everything up, along with what he put in my mouth almost every night.
But that bastard was happy. That’s how he enjoyed it. This man, who could enjoy himself as long as he made others suffer, was a civil servant; he got his salary from your taxes. Does it make you tremble to know this fact? How do you feel about civil servants who hurt others with your tax money? On the surface, this arsehole was married, father of two daughters. A year later he was in a car accident, this disgusting creature. I didn’t want him to die like that. I fantasised about killing him. The bastard died. And the bastard’s wife was upset, she didn’t know he was a bastard. I saw her crying. What do you think would have happened if I went to her and said, “Your husband was an arsehole, don’t be sad”? There’s never a time to tell the truth. This grieving woman probably wouldn’t believe me. She wasn’t just crying for herself, I could see that. She was sad that her two little children were without a father. If she knew that two innocents had been saved from a scumbag, maybe she’d be happy. But she was too sad to know, too sad to find out anything. The bastards are ready and waiting all over the world. They’re in great solidarity. When one goes, another one comes. There are so many scoundrels lining up to put a gun to your head and fuck you. Now I’m angry with myself, if I had said “Kill!”, did the so-called security guards have the guts to pull the trigger? These people, who threatened me instead of ensuring my safety, had guns because they lacked heart and humanity. Each of them was afraid of the gun in their hands. When I left the orphanage at the age of seventeen, I was a girl who had been repeatedly raped and “blown up” by three security guards and five of their friends. I was stupid. Stupid for not saying, “Kill me!” All three of them were cowards, but you know what’s worse? I was more cowardly than they were. That’s foolishness! Why are you afraid of being killed? What have you got to lose?