Disclaimer - I own none of the characters or plots - just my opinions.
Summary - This is Cassidy casablancas contemplating his life after death - character revelations.
My mother used to read me bed time stories, when I was younger, and she didn't know who I wanted to be. I found it was much easier when people didn't assume who you were based on who you currently are. My parents, even Dick, could plan out these elaborate lives that they knew I'd never take part in, just because I wouldn't stop them. I wouldn't ever tell them, That's not me, stop turning me into who you want me to be. I wanted them to know me for who they thought I was, not for who I had to be.
My mother liked the thought of me as this child, always listening to her, always yearning to hear what she had to say. I had slowly become this child, raised from the fairy tale handbook. She liked the world that these creations had conjured in her mind. I didn't know my mother was unhappy until my father had made me, in turn, unhappy too. My mother had always seemed like this simplistic woman -- good for nothing, but still there, still daring to live. She was almost a hero to me - until she walked away from it all.
I know what people probably think of me, now that I'm gone. I grew up in a life that wasn't ever really my own because I didn't want anyone to be displeased. I grew up living somebody else's life but now I feel a bit discouraged because the people that used to know me act as though they never really knew me. I don't know if they really knew me, the real me, but they knew something of me.
I guess Veronica Mars really was the only one to scratch beneath the surface and take a look around inside. But she scratched me so hard, these cuts won't ever heal and I'm embarrassed. I don't want anybody else to see the thing that I've invited into me. I didn't mean to. You can't possibly think that I intended it to happen -- everything with Veronica, and Woody. I didn't want to be what I knew I had to become. I didn't want to be so enraged that I couldn't see anything past my revenge.
You cannot just look at me, and my death and everything I'd done in life and say - oh well, good riddance, right? He deserved what he got. I didn't deserve it. Yes, I know I jumped head first into the deep end of insanity, but you cannot possibly endure what I did and walk away from it all with every fiber of your being still intact. It's impossible.
It hurts. It hurt before any of it had ever happened. It hurts to think of how stupid I was, how I was practically asking for this. My stupid eyes were probably crying out for human contact. My mom left my dad when I was ten, the exact same week that he'd thrown me into those little league teams. I was broken up when I was shoved toward Woody. And he was like a fucking leech, seeking out - yearning for the blood of the rejected.
I was appalled at first. I was ten but I knew what middle aged men should and shouldn't do. Touching kids in places that made them cringe. He invited me over the first night I'd joined the team. I don't know if dad was happy that somebody of importance accepted me or if he just didn't care enough to ask questions. I don't know what my father was thinking, letting me stay at some strange guy's house. It wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to protect me. He was supposed to look in my eyes and see the pleads they betrayed. But he wasn't looking and he wasn't listening. My father turned his back on me and walked away.
Woody's house was big, almost like I'd expected. He lived like a billionaire, maybe he was one. But we never discussed his accumulation of wealth and fame. That doesn't mean he didn't talk. He liked talking. He liked to tell me to relax, he liked saying how none of this was my fault and how what he was about to do shouldn't alarm me in any way. He liked to reassure me of the normality of the things he needed to do to me. He liked to reassure himself too, and sometimes I'd find him talking, just not to me.
He didn't like me talking though. I didn't know if my pre-teen voice would've ruined his moment, but he hated to be interrupted. He hated when I made noise -- grunts, yelps, groans, cries of pain and mercy. He told me of how pleasurable sex was but it really wasn't. He lied. I never got pleasure from anything he did to me, but afterwards I was always left alone with my own pain and disgust. I was always left with some ailment that dad would never notice because he was never looking. I had become the thing that he didn't want to see. I was not Dick.
You cannot possibly understand the torture that his touch was. Feeling his hands wash over my body, so heavy, so hungry. He always laughed when I'd shiver or cringe. He'd always tell me to play nicely or things'll go bad for me. I always tried to corporate with him. But even then it left me with this rock in my stomach, always weighing me down.
I know what I did was wrong. I killed people for God's sake. Okay, not for his sake; but for my own. I killed those people to cover for myself. It was stupid and it was wrong and I do feel guilt for it; guilt that's been accumulating ever since the first time Woody touched me.
I want people to know that what I did wasn't me. I wasn't a bad person. I opened the door for people and I gave food to stray animals. I cared about tomorrow, not just today. But something about Woody and what he'd done to me and the rest, I just couldn't ignore it. The boxes that I'd stuff all my emotions into were already overfilling and the emotions he sent flying around inside of me were just too much for the space in my head. I had to get them out of me before I really did lose my mind.
I couldn't stop after covering for myself, after the bus crash. I wanted him to feel the pain that he'd given to us. And I know what I did to Veronica was wrong. I'm not some animal. I didn't need Dick to believe that I was something on his level - I needed to believe it myself. I know raping somebody shouldn't instill that believe within yourself but to touch her like I had. I hadn't ever lusted after Veronica before but to be the one actually doing the touching? That was the first night I'd ever gained pleasure from sex.
And with Mac? After that. I don't know what was wrong, but something was off. I couldn't focus solely on her, because there was too much happiness clouding my brain. I hadn't ever felt happy before. Mac had given me this feeling, this supreme foreign feeling and I didn't know what to do with it. I wanted to make her happy but she kept smiling, every time we were together. I didn't know how to react. I'd lived in this dark place for too long that when someone smiled just because she was around me (me, of all people), I couldn't come up with a qualified reaction.
I loved Mac. I can honestly say that I loved her. And doing what I had done had nearly killed me but I believed that it was the best for her. I didn't want her to know who I was, not the person that Veronica Mars knew. I didn't want her to see the monster while I was still there - while I was still protecting it. I didn't want to hear her accusations and see the pain or hatred or whatever she would feel. I didn't want to disappoint her. I didn't want to disappoint anyone.