Splicing of Changes (Editing)

Chapter 25

A/N: Warning.

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It is now a homicide.

My parents' accident was not an accident at all.

Our house is now a crime scene.

They were murdered. My parents were actually murdered. That's the only thought roaming my brain since that phone call yesterday. I just cannot wrap my mind around it. I know I was feeling happy about the accident as that reunited me with Tori. And they were the ones who did not let me, and my sister have any sort of connection for all these years. But now hearing that someone may have planned to kill them. That seems to have elicited a reaction from me, one that I certainly did not see coming.

Here I was thinking I was over it and now it almost seems like my wounds have reopened. Only I was so sure they were not wounds at all. According to me they were just facts. Yet here I am being sucked into the vortex of the fact that mom and dad were actually killed. Well dad I understand, mom too? I guess it makes sense when you blindly follow a person and jump right off the bridge. Not a good analogy except it describes mom perfectly. After the letter Tori received, she gave me the gist of what it says. Apparently, mom felt guilty of not seeing her daughter for years. Like hell. She was also the one who read some of the letters Tori sent me. Well, that solved the mystery of some of the opened letters. She also wrote that she found out Tori is Vicky and to right her wrong all those years ago she decided to give us equal shares.

Guilty feeling at its highest. It is apparently my mother's motto. She felt guilty I am not sure about that. But she is making me feel guilty for being happy about her death, that's for sure. Although to some extent I know I shouldn't have been happy in the first place. But hey in my defense you taught your daughter never to show emotions, always maintain a fucking poker face. I guess then that's what you get as a reward for all those 'teachings.' I have heard parents teaching their children manner, etiquette, some more normal things. Yet, I learned how not to show or express emotions. I learned how to cash in whatever I am good at for grades, friends, even boyfriends. I was also taught how to make friends with just the people who would help get something in return, well to be precise my dad in the long run. Nothing was ever about me. It was and I am guessing even now it will always be about dad, Scott Monroe.

It reminds me of the funny fact that the last time I call dad, 'dad' was when I was 5. From then on, he became Mr. Monroe only. Nothing else. And mom. Well, she was absent for most of my childhood years. And when she was there, we rarely got to talk seeing as I was the perfect puppet of Mr. Monroe. So, I performed my puppet duties diligently. Never once questioning. Well at least not in front of them. I did have friends and they knew about my not so warm home life. Even Zach knows. But Aaron I don't know if he knew or not to be honest. Seeing as I met him just 2 to 3 months before I turned 15. Also, known as the year I decided to take my life's reins in my hand and turned the table on Mr. Monroe. I did what he taught me to him, took advantage of being his perfect whatever the fuck he wanted to refer me as, and cashed it in every opportunity I got. I am sure mom realized it; I was also sure she told dad. But now I am not so sure.

Breakfast today is painful. Not the food, but the atmosphere. It is evident my mind is buzzing like a bee who is also simultaneously stinging my stomach, making me feel guilty. Tori is distant. Liz is concerned. Alex is not here, and neither is James. At least if the kids were up, they would have shaken up this atmosphere a bit. But they are super tired. As we got in late last night. And then we kind of stayed up to well talk. About the news, the letter, the will. The kids were a little scared for some reason and could not sleep, they kept having nightmares. Well welcome to my life! But that is just too dark to say to a kid. Anyways and they are absent because I think we were all up until about 2.30 in the morning.