I examined my father’s death certificate again.  I was never able to read it clearly, not because it’s unreadable, but because I’d always switch and get spacey when I looked at it. I’ve had the certificate for 15 years.

When I looked at it last night I read it throughly. HP died in a fire. He was drunk, went into an abandoned house, and started a fire to keep warm. He fell asleep. HP’s death certificate says 89% of his body was badly burned. He was DOA at the hospital.

I never knew he died in a fire until I was 35. My mother JC told us children he died of pneumonia. In the nineties my brother did some research and found out the truth.  JC screamed at me when I asked her about it. She said I had no right to know what happened.

I don’t think he suffered enough.  HP passed me around to his friends and laughed while I was repeatedly abused and raped. I wanted and still want him to suffer, suffer, suffer.

Some people in my life think I should forgive.  I don’t think or feel I ever can. My anger strengthens me and it’s a natural response to being tortured.

Did he even ever wake up? I truly hope so. For all the cold-blooded, calculated, and premeditated suffering he caused my siblings, he needs to burn ten more times. Awake and aware with feeling.