The Victim

Chapter Four: Victory

The sins of the mothers

I step out of congress with a fake smile on my face. Today, the two-term limit on the president has been voted out of the constitution. I’ll be up for reelection next term. I get into the limousine and start drinking my freedom vodka as I’m driven back home. The news report my legendary public appearance. I hadn’t shown my face in almost a year.

Newspapers, social media, tv… They’re all filled with ovations for my decisions, with praises of how I’m the “brave genius president.” The exiles have become tired of criticizing me, and people have grown weary of listening to them. All the people in my blacklists are either dead, homeless, pariahs or a combination of those. The country mostly runs itself through the great state machine. I only have to hold private meetings with other world leaders from time to time.

I can’t stand regular people. Leaders I can tolerate because of who they are. But for the rest… After two minutes I’m physically ill. You may despise me at this point, but you’re the only thing I have left. I can only speak to you now, even if it’s only these brief pieces every few years. I need to get a few things off my chest.

First of all, I feel no regrets for the “crimes” I’ve committed. My rock was right, I am a wolf in human shape. Every man is prey. If I had to lie, deceive, frame and kill, I would do it all again. There will be nothing when I die. I will be remembered, but it doesn’t matter because, hell, I’ll be dead! I am proud of myself, maybe the last proud person to live. I used my wits to get this far, I deserve it.

Second, I must tell you what the future looks like. And trust me, because I helped shape it. The disgusting degeneracy is not going to stop growing and spreading like a cancer. Purple-haired whiney landwhales are the future. Every time I see one my stomach turns. But I swallow my disgust and hatred as I’ve done my whole life. You, however, you will have to bear it the rest of your life. I doubt you can find a sanctuary away from them anywhere. But hey, go ahead and try.

Oh look, my daughter is knocking. Tomorrow she’s getting married and I can finally see her after two years. “Yes, come in.” She steps in. I notice she’s finally a woman, a beautiful woman I know nothing about. Only what I’ve read on gossip magazines and online articles. “I, uhm, mother… madam president,” she’s anxious, just like every time she talks to me. “You… have to take the picture for the uhm… album.”

“Why have we never had a real conversation?” I reply before taking another sip from my freedom vodka. She makes a grimace. “Come on, can you give me one good reason?” She’s very uncomfortable. “Fine, mother. I’ll-I’ll just return when you’re sober—” I grab her by the arm, pressing hard. “Don’t you treat me like a drunken moron and answer the f-wording question!”

I let her go in horror. Oh god. I’ve become… I’ve become mother. I take a step back from her. But then I feel the urge to push her on. “It’s because you heard me, right? You heard what I said to uncle.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… please—” “You were there, you heard me telling the story of how I killed your father and his sister. Say it, for once in your life, have the decency to say it to my f-wording face!” I shake her violently, but she only cries.

“Please madam president… please,” she begs, sobbing. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always-I always thought you pushed me away because you didn’t want me.” She breaks down in cries in one of the office chairs. I go to the liquor stand and pour myself another glass of freedom vodka. My hand is trembling, my mouth dry. She seems sincere. So… it was my fault. I did this. I drove her away. I always assumed she heard…

“You’re lying,” I lash out. It’s impossible. She must’ve heard. It’s her fault. It’s all their fault! “You know damn well what I’m talking about. Get out, get the f-word out! I don’t want to see you ever again!” I scream at her. Then, smiling. “You’re weak and pathetic. I don’t even think you’re my daughter.” She runs away crying. It’s for the best, for the best. It was her fault, she hated me. It can’t have been me, no. It was her. Her.