September 26th, 2007 (08:54 pm)
current mood: indescribable
current song: "Tears Dry on Their Own" - Amy Winehouse
As much as I love Sylar, there are simply some things I can't bring myself to share with him. Part of me feels guilty about this, but then again ... when I look at him, I know there's so much about his past that I don't know. In my eyes, it's our future together that matters. Still, I find myself wanting to reflect on who I am and where I came from. Thus, I will spill out onto these pages the events leading up to the second murder I ever committed and a chapter of my life I've kept hidden.
My flight from China was sudden. Back then, I never expected my clan to turn on me, nor did I ever think I'd work up the guts to slaughter my father. I don't regret what I did, but I do wish I would have been more prepared for when I arrived in America.
My first two days in New York City were spent in a homeless shelter. I had only twenty bucks in my wallet and a backpack containing some clothes. Luckily, I was able to speak English, but my inability to read it made things scary and difficult.
On my third night in the city, I was walking back to the shelter when I was mugged. I wasn't harmed too badly, though I did get a black eye, a busted lip, and my money stolen. I sat there hopeless on the sidewalk when he found me. He was so different from the men I had met previously. He was tall and handsome. His blonde hair was slicked back and I still remember the glint in his blue eyes. I didn't love him ... but I definitely felt lust.
He took me back to a hotel. He bathed me and dressed my wounds. I saw the wedding ring on his finger, but I didn't care. If the silly bitch couldn't keep her man in check, that was her fault.
Then, that night, he took me. It was the first time I had ever had sex and all I remember was the pain and discomfort. He didn't make things easy on me, either. I knew I was nothing more than a toy to him. An object. Still, he had shown me the only kindness I had received in this new land, and even if it was given for selfish reasons, I wasn't about to reject it.
For the next three months, I was a pet. There's not other way to describe it. He kept me in a nice hotel. He brought me little gifts. He made sure I had the finest clothes, nice jewelry, and ate in the best restaurants the city had to offer. All I had to do in exchange was give my body up to him time and time again, and I did so. Perhaps it was prostitution, but what other choice did I have?
Then his wife found me.
Needless to say, she wasn't happy to learn her husband had a mistress. The little bitch had the audacity to slap me. ME. I wasn't about to take that. I dragged her into the room and used a sheet to gag her. Something in me had snapped. I had already killed my father -- I had already committed murder. What was stopping me from doing it again? It was then that I realized that I not only had the ability to kill, but I liked doing it.
I mutilated her. Sliced her to pieces. From what I heard, the mortician had a hell of a time putting her back together and they ended up going with a closed-casket funeral.
Almost as soon as I had finished killing her, my lover walked in. I honestly expected him to be thrilled. His ball and chain was out of the way and he could now have me whenever he wanted, but hew as distraught. He grabbed me by my neck and tried to choke me. I bludgeoned him with the room's telephone. I beat his face in until all the handsomeness was gone and there was just a bloody crater.
After that, I retreated into New York's seedy underground. My newfound love of killing was a precious commodity to mob bosses and other criminal kingpins. They gainfully employed me and I lived in a whirlwind of death, money, and one night stands until I met Sylar.
I'm completely devoted to him. There's no one else in the world whom I'd rather be with.
But, still ... How could I ever tell him of what I did when I first came to this country?
He'd be ashamed of me.
He might not love me anymore.
I'd rather die than lose his love.