The sick

I am not the bad guy.

I am not in the wrong.

It is me who suffered, I deserve whatever life I want.

From a young age, I have always known what I wanted to do with my life. Go to a good school, get a reliable job, be good at it, and overall be successful in my career.

I knew I wanted to have a family one day.

A woman, a wife, who could understand me, love me, and serve me.

She would take care of our kids, how many I didn’t know, but enough for me to never feel alone again.

My father committed suicide when I was 18. I was the one who found him dead in the living room.

He shot himself right through the head, straight down the middle, and I remember being more curious about the small object that could completely end a life, instead of panicking or feeling sad.

I didn’t know what to do, so I just waited for my mother to come back from work. When she opened the door, the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “something happened, you won’t like it”.

As if I’d done some stupid prank, or broken some of her valuable stuff.

But I guess something was broken, her heart.

She screamed so loud, and just then I felt scared, and eventually sad.

Not because my dad was dead, but because I would have to put up with a single mother, who was going to become a tedious presence in the house. I would also have to explain to my friends that my father was dead, and I knew that would change my life forever.

And it did. All I saw in people’s eyes was pity. Along with curiosity, wanting to know why he did it.

My mother would not tell me why, and I stopped asking when I realized I didn’t care.

I graduated high school shortly after his death, and started working at the convenience store nearby. The one pleasant thing about this is my parents' hard labor went towards my studies. So once I made enough money to cover my rent, I finally moved out.

I was a great student, so I got a scholarship at my dream school in the big city.

All of my parents savings went into my account, my mom lived off my dead dad’s pension and by my junior year she died as well.

I did not attend the funeral, and lied to people that my parents had died in a horrible accident when I was 17.

This story actually opened many doors for me. Instead of pity, people were inspired by my story of self development, endurance, and fortitude. So by the time I graduated, the principal himself got me a job with one of his buddies, who by that time was a pretty big deal.

I worked in finance and quickly rose through the ranks due to my undeniable skills and my life story which was very touching among my colleagues.

All I wanted in this life was joy, pleasure and success. To me, little lies did not matter one bit, so it became one of my favorite tactics to use to tip the scales in my favor.

A few blocks from my job was a hospital. Sometimes I would hang around their garden either before or after work, so I could hunt for good looking nurses or doctors. I’ve always had a fascination with those who dedicated their lives to helping others. Then one day I saw her. She was perfect, looked kind, very attractive, while having an amazing body. On top of everything, she was a doctor, a surgeon. Her name was Alice, I quickly wrapped her up in my sweet lies, and soon after we started officially dating. She lived by herself, in a very nice apartment, it seemed like her doctor’s salary was being put to good use, and luckily for me, she was one of those women that urgently needed a male around her, to make her feel loved and validated.

I took advantage of every single weakness she had.

And just like that by the end of our first year living together, she got pregnant.

I had a prestigious position at my job, and she was thriving as well, but once the baby she carried became an actual thing in our lives, everything began to unravel.

She became very intuitive, something she had never been before, it was no longer so easy to constantly lie to her.

She did not care much about my presence in the house, and even started questioning the reasons of how our relationship even began in the first place.

I knew she wasn’t who I met anymore, I felt so distant from the life I had pictured, so far away from what I once thought was within my grasp. And I knew that her and her unborn mess would bring me nothing but trouble.

The life that I so carefully worked for was shattering before my very eyes, I had to do something about it.

I remembered my mother would tell me as a kid, all the things that pregnant women shouldn’t do, what they shouldn’t eat, drink and so on and so forth. She had the need to tell me all of this because she was a CNA and she loved “educating” me, which is funny coming from a lady who couldn’t even become a real nurse. I bet in her head this information was crucial for me to know once I became a father, and it was indeed crucial, just not for the reasons she would’ve hoped for.

Now it's not like I could give my wife, the doctor, any health advice she didn’t already know, so I devised a plan to secretly sabotage her pregnancy and force a miscarriage.

I put poisonous herbs in her tea, and whenever she would complain about something being off, I would blame it on her physical and mental alterations, tell her that her body was just playing tricks on her. Sometimes I would even blame it on the brand of tea she was drinking, but I’d always make sure to drill it into her head that it was all in her mind, and perhaps even her fault.

One day she finally woke me up to the best news I could have ever wished for. She was covered in blood and had lost her baby.

I pretended to be heartbroken, and grieved with her. At least that’s one thing my father’s death taught me, it’s that people want a reaction.

She became this ball of sorrow and anxiety, so I simply left her for someone I met at a bar.

A published successful writer, who for the first time in my life made me feel actually close to being in love.

Our marriage lasted 10 years before she killed herself, her suicide note blamed it on the “chronic depression” she had developed. Not that I had anything to do with it, if she was actually a strong person like she said she was, she would have surpassed any pain and challenges our relationship faced. I admit I was never loyal to her, but it’s simply because I stopped liking the idea of her, and her face alone was a dreadful picture to look at after work.

The day she died, the police called. They said my wife was dangerously drunk and had purposely crashed her car. I smiled once I hung up the phone and took several hours to make it to the hospital and hear the news that she hadn’t made it.

I was relieved. No. More than that.

Didn’t even find her suicide note until years after, I truly did not care. Why would I? She was nothing but weak.

At least she gave me a beautiful girl, who looked just like me. We named her Sarah, the name of my high school crush. Of course I lied to her saying it was my grandma’s name.

She needed to die, otherwise she would have ruined our daughter, and my life in turn. Sarah did not need her, neither did I. All I said to her was that a drug addiction drove mommy to abandon us. That me and her were enough of a family for a while until we found someone who could actually love us.

Sarah is turning 8 this year and my life is how I always imagined it. I’m successful, I met this younger woman who is the perfect fit to take care of Sarah and serve us as a family. Her naivety makes things so easy, and she is the perfect target for my lies. Not that I want to lie, but people don’t make things easy and I can’t help but to be a smart, problem solving type of guy.

I am not bad. In fact, I always gave people the chance to show me they could live this lie(life) with me. They just didn’t take it.

Everytime I look in the mirror, I tell myself, “I am a good person.” “I just had to lie, because life made me do it.” It is not my fault.

I had to do what needed to be done to stand here right now. I am not the bad guy.