Chapter 1 Lolita
Zita Lifland
Ciel, you are my everything. You are my Alpha and my Omega, my beginning and my end. I know now that we were not meant to be forever, but I would trade an eternity of ignorant bliss to the short and painful truth that we had. And do not blame yourself; never do. Nothing is your fault. All you have ever done was give me purpose, and make a better man of me, if only a little. There is so much that I regret; I have hurt you countless times, taken more from you than you thought you ever had, and yet I do not regret that I decided on that fateful day that I would stay, as from the moment I met you, my life has never been like it was before. For all that I ever took from you, and for all that you ever gave me, thank you.
I missed you. I missed your stubble on my cheeks in the morning. I missed the cologne on your skin. I missed the ridiculously perfect tarts and madeleines that you made for me, and for me only, because you didn't even like sweets that much. I missed your smile and the hum in your voice when you kissed me goodbye in the morning and greeted me again in the afternoon. I even missed your stupid grin when I accidentally fed your ego too much. I missed always having a decent chess partner at home, I missed the beat of your heart when all else was still. I missed you so much, I wanted to scream it out for everyone to hear, but nobody would listen. I was sent to a psychoanalyst to help me resolve my trauma, but not even my therapist would listen. She would go on and on about how we fear the unknown and prefer the horrors we're familiar with , doesn't that sound familiar? That I'd eventually understand that I didn't miss you, but the childhood that I'd lost to you. That's what everyone else told me too. You can finally be a child now . They just couldn't understand that I never wanted to be a child in the first place. This world is not made for children, and childhood is an excuse for adults not to take minors seriously.
To the world, you became the monster that you claimed to be. Your college removed your Comparative History of French Literature for the English-Speaking Student from their list of recommended reads, but the English translations of your novels began to sell like crazy for their freak factor . Since the rights to them were passed on to me, at least I got good money out of people's sensationalism, and I could use it for my tuition fee, to take that burden at least from Agni.
With your confession, my testimony turned into a joke. Of course, everyone believed that I was lying in your favor because I was just a brainwashed child. However, I was a child , and I think they would've let me go if you'd told them the truth. We could've made up a little white lie on how it could come that far; that Undertaker just turned up at our house and got violent. Soma and Sullivan knew first-hand that he was crazy, and they would've supported our claims. The police didn't find the photos that Undertaker pressured you with until you revealed their existence in your stupid confession, and I'm sure there would've been a way to prevent their discovery if only you'd shut up.
They wouldn't have locked up a boy that defended his father . They would've understood that Undertaker was stronger than you, that he was much more furious than you described him, and that he choked you, despite me crying at him (and not at you) to let go, and trying to pull him away from you with all my force but failing, despite your face turning blue. I just wouldn't let him strangle you, I'm sure they would've understood. I should've taken something else, like a broom, and tried to knock him out, but there was no broom anywhere near, and I was stupid, hysterical, desperate. The letter opener was all I had. I didn't want to kill Undertaker. I just wanted to rescue you. In the end, I failed.
If only you'd been honest about the killing. We could've left America, lived together, died together. I wish you would've stayed selfish enough to at least make the third dream come true. You didn't understand that if all else had failed, that was what I really would've wanted. I still think it would've been a good end for us. You didn't protect me by denying me that option; you just hurt me one more time.
It wasn't love at first sight. I was very wary of you right from the beginning. I noticed that you were interested in me, although I couldn't yet imagine what kind of interest it was. I also realized that you were a narcissist that usually got what he wanted, and in my book, that's a dangerous combination.
It was just intercourse in the beginning. Fornication. Sodomy. Your timing had been perfect. I was awakening to my sexuality that summer, it almost drove me over the edge because I didn't know what to do about it, but then I felt your hands on my body and I knew that your touch was what I wanted. I knew it was wrong but it felt right. Nothing I could do to myself felt as right as being in your strong grip, being kissed by those lips of yours that spat so much conceited rubbish when they weren't busy with my body, coming by your hand or mouth, or your words of worship for the glow that you said spread across me after my climax. I was more suspicious of you than ever but you only did what I allowed you to do, and I thought I had everything under control. I knew it was atrocious of me to entertain your infidelity towards Mother like this, but at the time, I was bored, and maybe a little frustrated. All of my life, I had lived for the sake of others, wished for the sake of others, and dreamed for the sake of others. It was the first time that I wanted something just for myself, and I took it. The thrill of having an adult secret like that weighed more than any moral concerns.
It wouldn't have come that far if I hadn't been attracted to you. Some of the kids at summer camp had been fooling around, and I was asked more than once if I didn't wanna try it too, but my answer was always a decided no . Maybe that was something that should've concerned me about myself, that the thought of sexual experimentation with peers gave me nothing, while at the same time, I fantasized about you desiring me, and acting on those desires. I didn't feel I had much in common with the other kids; you, on the other hand, seemed like a misfit in your own way, and we shared an intellectual intimacy like I never knew it before. Although my being a child was what you desired, I thought we had a connection beyond the limits of age. I felt maturer and emancipated; the secret we shared seemed to empower me.
When Mother died, part of me felt like I killed her. It would take a year until I had my confirmation but I always knew that her death was somehow related to our liaison. In the blink of an eye, I was a child again; a child as powerless and helpless as I'd never been before. I blamed you as much as I blamed myself, but I knew then that I was lost to you. You were all I had left; all that still mattered to me.
You became everything. With every time you told me that I was all that you ever wanted, and that there'd be nothing left of you if you lost me, you cut a little further into the safety rope of mine that was supposed to pull me out when I got in too deep. You filled every last corner of me that wasn't about you yet, soul and body, and since there wasn't much else left in me anyway, I welcomed your filling this emptiness. I had long crossed the border between sex just for pleasure's sake and the search for a familiar warmth in the touch of a familiar person, and the even warmer high that came afterwards. At that time, I had fully understood that I hadn't earned your sexual attraction to me with my assumed maturity of mind, but the immaturity of my body. I was scared you'd soon grow tired of me, yet I believed that part of you cherished me beyond my appearance, and that was what I clung to. On most days, I enjoyed our road trip. We spent more time together than most others could've ever borne to spend with one person; it was fun, we laughed a lot, and I got to see corners of the American continent I would've never seen otherwise. A personal closeness enriched our intellectual intimacy.
As a child of thirteen, I saw in you the first one that ever understood me at my core; the first one that could really make me believe that there was purpose in me being me, with all of my flaws. When I had an opinion, you took it seriously, even when you disagreed with it. I was afraid I'd lose all of that with the maturation of my body, but at the same time, you never really treated me like a child. What they despised you for, what was probably wrong of you, and what you even regretted eventually, I appreciated of you: Despite your sexual perversions, you saw in me not just a child, but an equal, at least on most behalves.
I felt liberated once again when you told me that you looked forward to watching me age. You lifted a giant burden off my shoulders: I could finally shake off the assumption that my worth was defined by my youth, or age in general. At the same time, I finally found friends that I could open up to a little. You wondered whether it was because I had found the right people, or because I had matured enough; I think both were the case.
I don't think I was ever happier than during our time in Weston. I enjoyed the new routine of going to school, and feeling at place there. I also enjoyed coming home every afternoon to the house that you and I made our own. I felt safe with you. Moving there had been the result of your despicable crimes, but I wouldn't have changed a thing. I know that these are harsh words, and that I should feel guilty spelling them out in my role as a son, but I knew that the dead cannot be brought back and I will repeat without regret: I wouldn't have changed a thing.
I'm not as strong as you think I am. It wasn't right, we weren't right, that's what I told myself, and although not a single fiber of me believed these words, they still scared me enough to disable me from telling the truth. When I knew I would lose you, I knew that it was wrong to lose you, I knew what I felt, but I still couldn't tell you. I hoped you knew but I knew that you only hoped.
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