Dear father,
I've already written to mother, I thought that was the hardest thing I've ever written but it doesn't even come close to this. It's not just the words that are hard, it's acknowledging you. Acknowledging your existence. Acknowledging you were real and not just a monster from one of my nightmares.
That's what you were. A monster. Something demonic that hid in my wardrobe or under my bed. Something evil with no heart. No soul. Something that took mine.
I remember the very first time it happened, people say children don't remember trauma that well, clearly those people never experienced what I did. Or maybe I'm cursed with an exceptional memory, either way, I remember. I remember you opening my bedroom door and I woke up so happy to see you, you'd been away and despite your lack of affection for me, I'd missed you. I remember the smell of brandy on you. I knew something bad was going to happen, I don't know how I knew, I just did. I was right.
Why would you do that to me? I was a child. I was your daughter and I loved you. I looked up to you, admired you. Trusted you. You repaid me with betrayal. And pain.
I was too young to know what you were doing, all I knew was that I was terrified and how much it hurt. You put your hand over my mouth to stop me from crying, was it because you were worried mother would hear, or because you felt guilt at what you were doing? I come to realise it was neither of those things. Mother didn't want to see the truth and would blank it from her mind. That was made clear to me years later when you raped me in front of her as a punishment. You didn't feel guilt because if you did, you'd not have kept coming back night after night until I was finally able to get away from you by marrying Rodolphus.
Why did you do it, daddy? I still don't understand. Why would you ruin me like that? Because that's what you did. You ruined me. I know I was always a little difficult to handle, I know I had a nasty temper and was.. different from others. But I'm a Black! Aren't we all that way? At least that's what everyone says. But I wasn't broken. I wasn't unfixable. Until that night. That night something changed inside me, and as you continued over the years to violate me, you chipped away at my soul until it was this ragged, torn thing. You chipped away at my mind until it was a confused mess of chaos and darkness. It never healed.
I never healed. Even when the Dark Lord gave me permission to end your life after I confided in Him what you did to me. I thought your death would bring me peace but it never did.
I suppose though in a way I should be grateful to you, I'm inclined to think one of the reasons I survived Azkaban was because you'd already ruined my mind to the point where all the abuse and torture I suffered there was nothing compared to what you did to me.
I hope you're proud of what you created.
Sincerely,
Bellatrix.