April 21, 2019

    Even in the time that I’ve come to accept that I will live the rest of my life in the Warehouse, I don’t want to believe that it could be a happy life. I wonder how Jeffrey finds happiness down here. I guess when you live underground for so long, the world above may seem chaotic in comparison. I know that the second I go above ground that my mother will try to find me. I still don’t understand why Jeffrey refers to my mom as She, but I appreciate that he doesn’t use it in a distasteful way. The man actually seems lost in wonder anytime the conversation turns to She. 

    I stumbled across a room last week with newspaper clippings, printed pictures, and a series of string paths on one wall. In the center of the room stood a small wooden table with a massive pile of documents ready to add to the wall. The casted shadows from the single red light in the room made my stomach sink into my colon. Yet, I went in with little hesitation. One picture drew my attention. It was of my mom and me walking hand in hand to our jeeps. I didn’t think anything of it when it happened, but I felt uncomfortable when I looked at the photo. It always seemed like a comfort thing for my mom to hold my hand, but I could recognize why we got some weird looks out in public. We didn’t always drive together when we went somewhere, especially with my wanting to spend time with V. I can’t even spell her name out without losing my strength and slumping in this chair with exhaustion. Anyways, back to the red-lit room. In the corner, I saw a folded-up cot that looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade or two. On the wall, I saw the initials C.L. carved into the stone. I still need to ask Jeffrey about that. 

    On the table, I found case files for what I now know as all the murders Jeffrey could connect to She. The data went further back than just my therapist. You know, kids often see their parents as superheroes and are only slightly disappointed when they find out that their parents are just humans. Society tries to prepare you for that in a gentle way through movies and other forms of media, but they don’t prepare you to find out your mother is a hitman. Or is hitwoman more politically correct? Either way, how are you supposed to cope with the knowledge that your parent kills people for a living? 

            I wonder Jeffrey celebrates holidays down here. I wouldn’t mind some peeps right now. I’d even be happy with a little Cadbury egg. Happy Easter to me.