Why I'm Glad My Parents Were Never Held Accountable

It's harrowing for me to even say this. I'm disassociated while I type.

Have nightmares that never sleep. That never go away. Of my mother so vile on that screen screaming at me in a way I never ever had heard before. Deafening. To reveal how she really felt about me all this time. How horrifying it is. The horror. God knows what she put me through. I feel like I'm becoming a mini version of her. But I'm facing it either way, and it's beyond what hell is. It's nothing and everything all at once.

I have always thought my mom was a serial killer, and I still have nightmares of her killing me in my sleep as her last victim. Just like in my serial killer story

There was a text last year that I read. Someone had texted me, saying that an old lady was killing them. I know it might have been a hack, but I don't know. There was something about that was off to me. It was around the same time I had been writing my serial killer story on here. And I had called my mom that day. I know she must have gotten off work by then. She didn't answer. I kept calling. She didn't answer...

She saved these kids' jackets from her bus and their phones, but I don't know why she's keeping them. She's a bus driver. My friends say it's weird. Very weird. Something ain't right.

I know she's a sadist. She bumped into the dish washer once, saying, "Ow, that's hurts." Then whispered, "But I like the pain."

It doesn't help that I'm a schizophrenic because I know I can't be taken seriously.

And I've blanked out way too much to continue writing.