I miss his kindness. The days and nights long past when he would try his utmost to convince me that I was a worthless human being. All human beings were worthless to him. Especially me.
One night he told me that if she had known the sort of horrible blight on the world I really was, my own mother would rejoice when I died. Something in me moved and I screamed at him.
Told him I was better than this. I had a light in me that no one, not even he, could extinguish. That he was the vile one, not me. That he was lucky I didn't tear him to bits.
Then my mother herself came into the room and told me if I ever spoke to another human being in such harsh tones again, there'd be trouble.
So I allowed that same something within myself to give way and I wept in a way that I am seldom able to. I treasured the tears because they symbolized the end of his chastisement.
Through my tears I pleaded for his mercy, for his pity. He stopped yelling. He told me the tears were a good thing. They meant repentance and self-hatred.
And that meant I wasn't all bad after all. Don't you know kindness can sometimes make you cry?
Gradually, we stopped speaking to one another. I became hardened to his preaching and he became unmoved by my tears. That was the end of it.
We saw each other for who we really were: not as the Savior and the wretch, but as two equally broken individuals.
There would be no more lessons, no more verbal assaults, no more pleading and no more tears. He hasn't even looked in my direction for such a long time. I miss him terribly.
Now he barely knows I exist, and he cares even less. All human beings are worthless to him. Especially me.