You tell everyone you're okay with it. You always have.
After all, it's not like you really remember what happened. Nothing more than a cloudy impression of something going horribly wrong, before you were old enough to do anything about it, and dark dreams that always seem to involve a woman's screams and the harsh sound of a chainsaw.
Sometimes you think about her, not that you'd ever admit it. No one knows about that picture of her tucked into your wallet, stuffed behind the various maxed-out credit cards and other crap. But you do, you think about her at night, and you find yourself growing angry at her, for leaving you to the mercy of the shrieking harpy-bitch and her catatonic husband, who hates you simply for bearing the blood of the son she wants nothing more than to forget.
And then the anger fades, and you wonder what she was like. The one person on earth who may have – MUST have – may have loved you. Did she want you? Did she feed you strained peas out of a jar, and sing you to sleep at night? In her last moments, did she scream for him not to hurt you?
You don't know why he did what he did. No one does. At first, they, the counsellors and therapists you were subjected to in grade school, tried to tell you that it wasn't your fault, but you always knew better. You've always been the odd one out – the dirt poor chubby kid with ridiculous hair, crooked teeth and a lisp so bad you can barely be understood -- if people even take the time to try. You hate yourself...it isn't hard for you to believe that your parents hated you too.
You know you're unpleasant to be around. You have to be. You don't want their pity. You remember the way people used to look at you when you were young, when they found out – like they wanted to scoop you up and take you home with them. You hated it. You've never needed anyone's charity. You know no one could ever like you. You're dirty, tainted with the blood of a murderer, and you can bleed and bleed and bleed yourself, but you'll never be clean.
Your quarters are in the basements. The others don't come down here; it's too bleak and damp, even for them. You don't mind. You don't want anyone down here. They think you can't get girls, but the truth is you don't want them. You can't take the risk of passing on your dirty genes. His legacy stops with you.
And when you wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, the roar of a chainsaw still ringing in your ears...you don't want anyone else to know.
You'll never tell.