They say you should keep in touch with the child within. But what if the child within is a monster? Surely then the best thing to do would be to keep that child hidden in a deep, dark place? Or to try to kill it, some how?
My name is Steven Evers. Once, I was Dr Steven Evers, a respected psychologist and author of numerous textbooks and self help books for people who required help. But that was before I ruined everything.
I am in jail for rape. It wasn't just any rape, I raped the wife of my lifelong best friend, I did this by abusing my knowledge of psychology and I abused her trust.
I was able to convince her to cheat on her husband by having her performing horrible, degrading acts. But worse I sent video evidence of what happened to her poor husband and also (this brings me more shame) to their 18 year-old daughter.
Today is my first session with the psychologist that they have assigned to me. Well, this should be interesting! I have asked her to just sit and listen, with a recording device going, to say nothing.
She sits down at the table in front of me and introduces herself. Her name is Amanda Smith. She is young, dark haired and very earnest. Under other circumstances, I would have described her as pretty.
"Hello. I am here to help you understand yourself a little better." She started well, I'd have to say.
"Before our formal recording session starts, as this is our first session I would like to recommend two books." I thought that sounded ominous. Surely not?
"The two books I would like to recommend are: 'Acknowledging our Inner Selves' and 'Helping Ourselves to a Better Life' they are by..."
"Dr Steven Evers," I interjected.
"Oh! You have heard of Dr Evers?" she replied. "Oh, your name is Evers, isn't it? Are you related?"
I gave her 'a certain look' and said: "Look at my name, again."
She did, then her face blanched and her right hand flew up and covered her mouth. "Oh! Oh my God! I am so sorry! We'll dispense with the book discussion. We'll start our recording, now. Perhaps you could tell me about yourself, why you are here?"
"I am atoning for a crime. The crime of rape. How did this happen? I blame my mother. That's probably unfair, to some extent, but I blame her for ruining my childhood and creating what I call the monstrous child side of my personality. The evil child within, if you will.
Where to begin? My father was a good, kind, loving man. He was a university professor and taught English literature at Dugday College in San Francisco.
He'd met my mother when they were both freshmen (freshpersons?) at university. They'd dated and married whilst they were still studying. I came along very quickly afterwards. Only several months after the wedding.
My father was a fairly wealthy young man and he came from old money. Our house had been in the family for several generations and was part English country manor and part Disney castle. Actually, I exaggerate, though it was a fantastic place to be a child in. Until, that is, my mother began her cheating.
It was strange but she started cheating on me, first. Until I was five she was, as far as I can recall and as far as I could tell, a normal mother. As normal as a mother with a maid and a nursemaid to help her look after a child could ever be!
But when I was five she started cheating on me. Well, that's how it felt to me. She began seeing less of me, yet at the same time she was increasing her activities with charities that worked with third world children.
I was her son, her own flesh and blood, yet she spent more time looking after he interests of Inuit children, children in India, Africa and everywhere it seemed, but children in her home. Or, to be more specific, me. The only child in her home.
I saw her countless times on the TV reporting back for whatever charity she was working for, some thin brats on one side, a celebrity friend on the other, all looking towards the camera. All for charity. But what about me? Didn't I deserve some charity from my mother? Apparently not.
When I was about nine, my mother started cheating on my father. Oh, she was a master manipulator. (Was this where I got it from?) She was able to convince my poor clueless father that it was his all fault.
That if he'd done x, y, z, then she wouldn't have to cheat! So he did x, y, z and, yes, you've got it! She cheated some more! Why? Because she had his measure. And she then knew what she could get away with.
The fights were terrible. I would escape the house to flee the horrors of my home life. And money does not make you happy. My home life was proof if this. After all, we had money and we did not have happiness.
I spent a lot of my time at the home of my friend Dave Summers. His family took me in and looked after me like I was a second son to them. Incidentally I am glad his parents did not live to see my betrayal of their son.
It was at their home that Dave introduced me to his new girl friend, Susan. My reaction to this dark haired beauty with the tanned skin, the long legs, the perfect bottom, the beautiful breasts and the ready smile was instant. She was gorgeous but I buried such thoughts deep. A gentleman doesn't put the make on his best friend's woman, right?
Eventually things at home got worse. When I was 14 my skanky mother finally left my father for a much younger lover (not that much older than me, in point of fact) and my father's reaction was to work really hard at drinking himself into an early grave. Sadly when I was just a couple of days beyond my 18 birthday he was able to succeed in his desire, and died due to acute alcoholic poisoning.
I was 18 and I was arranging the funeral of my still relatively young father. That was so fucked up! I had it arranged in the Cathedral, with the Bishop officiating. What can I say? When you are wealthy, money can buy anything. Actually, that's not entirely true. Whilst it is true that the remains of the family money certainly helped, what really swung the deal was that the Bishop and my father had been at university together and were still personal friends right up to the end.
The funeral went well, mainly my father's university colleagues, some of his students and some former classmates of his from his own student days, and at the end of the service I had paid the organist to play some of my father's favourite Bach pieces. It went well up until the time I saw my mother and her lover lurking behind a column at the back of the chapel.
I walked towards her. She was elegantly dressed. She should have looked beautiful, but her face looked hard. It reminded me of one of those carefully crafted lines by Raymond Chandler. Philip Marlowe had seen a woman and berated her appearance as looking like: "The ice maiden after a hard night out at sea with the fishing fleet." That's what my mother looked like.
I looked her up and down. "Come to gloat? What? No wooden mallet and stake to drive through his heart? There's no need to bother. I can assure you that he is quite dead."
A look crossed her face. I couldn't determine what it was. "There's no need to be like that," she said. "I came to pay my respects."
"Your respects?" I spat out. "God! You had no 'respects' for him whilst he was alive. It's a bit damn late, now to find some 'respects' for him! And since you left home when I was 14, I have only ever seen you a couple of times for fleeting visits!"
