The Monster is dead.
That's it. He left. He left for the other world. He left with his heart still full of the crimes he committed. He left with a heavy burden of the acts of pedophilia and incest he has committed.
Three years ago, he decided to tear into pieces the letter I sent him telling him that after many years of amnesia I recalled his crimes.
Two years ago, I (finally) found the rage and the courage to tell my mother. The words of a 53-year-old woman about the secret of her 8-year-old little girl. Abused. Almost in front of her eyes.
A year ago, I understood that he was a victim, too.
Many years ago, walking the path of transgenerational therapy, I have worked out and understood and integrated so many events and elements about my family. I am still working on it. A huge healing project. My way.
So he is dead. 89 years on Earth.
Dead.
But does death heal crimes?
I don’t think so.
Specially for those who committed them, healing is so fucking hard.
He should have started the work before. Now he has no agency.
For the others, for us, everything is possible.
Of course, there is anger.
Anger, that often burns the bodies and the hearts that bear it.
Today, the anger I carry, no longer burns me.
I feel almost at peace with it.
It’s always there as a little roaring friend.
But it’s not biting anymore.
So he left.
And my rage too.