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    Infamy
    Infamy
    Infamy
    Ebook185 pages3 hours

    Infamy

    By Erin Lee, Olivia Marie, John Watson and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Infamy

    A Crazy Ink Anthology

    in·fa·my

    noun

    1. the state of being well known for some bad quality or deed.

    "a day that will live in infamy"

      • an evil or wicked act.

    It is defined as something so wicked, so horrific, that it can never be forgotten.

    To be infamous is to live forever.

    It is to leave a legacy so tragic that it changes the very definition of the person who committed the act.

    Read fictional takes on infamous people so malicious we will not soon be able to erase them from history.

    Was it intentional? So we would never forget?

    Why did they do it?

    What made them snap?

    Would they do it again in an effort to preserve or even erase their sinful legacy?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCrazy Ink
    Release dateSep 4, 2019
    ISBN9781393764489
    Infamy
    Author

    Erin Lee

    Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

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      Book preview

      Infamy - Erin Lee

      Seymour Avenue

      Erin Lee

      Author Note: This is a fictionalized story written for entertainment purposes only. This author has no personal first-hand knowledge of Ariel Castro and the events that happened in his home over the course of a decade on Seymour Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio, that finally ended on May 6, 2013. This story was written only after extensive research into events and the viewing of public court recordings and transcripts.

      It is written from the perspective of Ariel Castro in an attempt to unravel what might have been going on in the infamous murderer, rapist and kidnapper’s mind by a therapist with graduate-level training in deviant pathologies.

      In no way is it intended to mock or otherwise trivialize the horrific circumstances three innocent women and a child suffered at the hands of this monster. Names and other details, other than the perpetrator and his, have been changed and identities recreated for the sake of sensitivity to the subject matter. This horrific crime has only been used as a prompt for a story and is in no other way connected to the real life people involved. For this reason, both major and minor events have been changed for respectful purposes.

      Warning: This story contains graphic subject matter, triggers and might not be suitable for all readers.

      (Paraphrased) Ariel Castro’s public court statement:

      I’m a very emotional person. I didn’t prey on anyone. All I did was act on my sexual instincts. As God is my witness, I never beat or tortured anyone. I’m going to try to get it all out, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to. I’d like to apologize to the victims and anyone else I hurt. I hope you’ll find it in your hearts to forgive me.

      People want to say I’m a monster but I’m not. I have an illness. I have sexual problems. I was engaging in the art of masturbation and pornography two hours a day. I just could not stop. I didn’t even plan it. It wasn’t something I thought about. I was just impulsive. I didn’t wake up that day thinking I would take her. It wasn’t in my character. I’m not trying to make excuses, but I’m not who they say I am on the media.

      I don’t even know why I picked up the second victim. I was driven by sex. That’s all I really know. I wasn’t thinking about hurting anyone. I didn’t even realize I knew her dad. I just knew I wanted her. I don’t know why. I had a job, a home, my music. I had it all going on. If I could have controlled this, I would have.

      She got in my car without even asking questions. I’m not blaming her. But I’m not the monster people say I am. I am sick. I have an addiction no different than a drug addict. She seemed like she wanted to come with me. I mean, she must have. I wasn’t forceful with her or the others either. There were times those girls would ask me for sex – many times. Nothing in that house wasn’t consensual.

      I did them a favor. No one missed them anyway. I gave them a home. It was the FBI’s fault. That’s who let them down. When they questioned my daughter, they didn’t bother to question me. I’m her father and could have ended it right there. I even told them I was addicted to porn.

      I was married with four children. I did the normal life. It was this other side of me I could not control. I’m a sex addict. I’m addicted to porn. I’m not trying to make excuses, I’m really not. What I did was wrong, but I’m not a monster. The only thing I did wrong was not let them leave. There was harmony in that home. I swear, there was. They were my family.

      I’m an artist. I’m a musician. Those two things don’t match. I was a good father too. If you asked my daughter, she’d tell you I was the best father in the world. I took her to church. We were a normal family. The accusations that I came home and beat them are totally wrong. What I did was wrong, but I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

      I drove a school bus for over twenty years. I got myself fired because I was too stressed out and didn’t want to hurt anyone. I couldn’t keep that job with the situation at home. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I would come home and be so glad to see those girls.

      I was never abusive. I never had a record. I never hurt anyone until I met my ex-wife. I was always telling her to quiet down. She would put her hands on me first. I only wanted to defend myself. Still, it was wrong. But twelve years with that woman was hard. I could have hurt her, but I didn’t. I’m not a violent person.

      I am sorry for putting a dark cloud over the city. But there was harmony in that home. It wasn’t the house of horrors that the media calls it now. It’s true, your honor. Seymour Avenue wasn’t the monster’s cave the media would have you read about. I’m a normal person. I could be anyone’s neighbor. Again, I am sorry... I just wanted to set the record straight.

      Monday, April 30, 2013, 7:32 am

      One week before arrest

      THERE ARE TIMES I WONDER if it’s really worth it. I’ve lost so many opportunities with my friends and family, always worried someone will hear them. They’ve been good – lately. They walk with tiny steps so as not to make noise. I like to think it’s because they respect me now and see all I’ve done for them. It wasn’t always like that. Years ago, when I first invited them into my home, they stomped around. They rattled the chains they forced me to use on them so that they would not leave while I was at work. They whined, moaned, and would never look me in the eye. That’s changed too. At least, it’s changed on their end.

      It’s a complicated thing. I love my family. I want to trust them. More importantly, I want them to trust me. I know they know I saved them. Their families didn’t want them. If they had, they would have looked harder. Besides, what we’ve created in my modest home on Seymour Ave is beautiful. They could not have done it without me. I know they know this. They just don’t want to believe that what we have created together is a beautiful thing far superior to the outside world. I get it. Trust is a difficult thing. Still, I wish they would appreciate me more for all that I do.

      I lock the door behind me. I don’t think they’d try to leave. I still like to be cautious. Lately, it feels like there are eyes on me. Just last week, Mrs. Donavan asked me if I had guests. I asked her what would make her think such a thing. She told me she’d had a dream. For this reason, and many more, I’m not taking chances.

      I look back at the house as I cross the street. The windows are blocked and there’s no sign of them. The sagging steps and peeling paint remind me that I should probably think about some side work. One thing I hadn’t anticipated was how expensive it would be being fully responsible for three grown women and one baby. And now, with the way Kim looks, it might even be more. I can only hope the good Lord hasn’t seen fit to give us another baby. Not now.

      I remember the first time I cut myself very clearly. It is a memory that you never forget, much like a great day with a cherished friend or the best scene in your favorite movie. I was twelve years old and incredibly awkward. Frightened that nobody would ever love me, I panicked into a dark, downward spiral that would later turn into Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder. That’s what the doctors told me. It’s what I believe brought me here. But back then, it didn’t make sense like it does now. Going through my days, I experienced a mix of emotions that was inexplicable. I felt sadness, anger, guilt and pity all blended into one bitter smoothie. I didn't know how to properly process any of these emotions and became a shaking time-bomb for my own psychopathology to control me. I know that now. I didn’t then.

      One night, I couldn't take it anymore. I had tried everything I could think of to solve my sadness. Family members had constantly told me, But, Ariel, you have everything you could ever want. You shouldn't be sad! Plenty of people would die to be in your position. That was just it, I didn't know why I was sad so I had no idea how to stop it. I let my guilt tear me apart limb by limb. I was only in the seventh grade and already the maggots of mental illness and self-hatred began to burrow their way beneath my skin. In a futile attempt to find answers, I let the maggots live inside me. I allowed them to thrive on my flesh, and even encouraged them sometimes. Knowing they were there was my validation, they allowed a reason to be sad. I wasn't being selfish, greedy, or a brat. I was sad because I was infested.

      Eventually, the maggots fattened and grew. This is when I first decided to pick up a pair of scissors. I sat on the cold tile of my bathroom floor and looked at the blue scissors in my hands. I wasn’t entirely sure where I got the idea from in the first place, but I was certain that this is what must be done. I took the edge of my school scissors and dug it into my forearm. I winced in a moment of pain and then relaxed. No blood had been drawn, but it left a long burn mark along my skin. I felt like I could finally breathe again. I had been drowning in a swimming pool of my own thoughts for years, and I was just now poking my head up to the surface for a breath of fresh air.

      After that first night of cutting myself, I remember being ecstatic for the next week. I thought to myself and even said it out loud, "Wow. This is it. I’ve found it, the end all be all. Finally, I can be a normal person."

      As most stories of addiction go, I thought I had it all under control. I was only cutting when I was upset, and it made me feel really, really good. Eventually, the high wore off. In high school I was cutting myself just because I felt that I had to. My emotions were out of control and I never learned how to properly combat them. I had found straight razors and would lie to my parents for money so I could buy them and some gauze. I had begun to do irreparable damage to my body with these, slicing myself open a few times a week just to have the courage to get up in the morning and face the world.

      Walking through the hallways in high school would give me crippling panic attacks. Anytime anyone would even glance in my direction, all the muscles in my body would tense up. My mind would go into a frenzy, telling me that these strangers absolutely hated me and that they were only looking at me because of how ugly I looked or how stupid I was. Not many people knew of my crippling anxiety as I hid it relatively well, so I never reached out for help. I felt I was beyond fixing. The maggots wriggling between my cells were now part of my identity. If I didn’t have them, what else did I have? I simultaneously hated every morsel of my being, but loved the little babies that lived inside of me. I egged them on; I told the maggots to grow.

      After multiple suicide notes and half-serious attempts to off myself, I somehow made it to early adulthood. Music was my salvation. I no longer needed to lie for money to get supplies to harm myself, so I always had an abundant supply and didn’t need to limit my resources. The only problem? Once something is easy to get, it becomes less desirable. And that’s what I think happened with my family. That’s where the sexual addiction came in. When I stopped cutting, everything changed. It’s when I discovered pornography.

      I SHAKE MY HEAD, UNWILLING to go another day feeling bad about it. I did what I did and what’s done is done. I’ve made the best of it for the girls. Together, we have built a family. And now, because I’m not a monster and I’m a good man, I am doing what must be done to support that home. I remind myself I can trust them. For as much as they make me nervous, it’s been so long now that I know—deep down—they are grateful for what I’ve done for them. I’ve protected them and kept them safe from a cruel outside world.

      I wave at the FedEx delivery guy. He smiles and nods. I hate the bus company. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be able to use my CDL and get a job with FedEx. All those years and $19.91 an hour? Really? I spent my entire career driving snot-faced kids around for what? Now, with unemployment threatening to dry out, I’ve got to find a job. The girls aren’t going to feed themselves... I didn’t want to hurt anyone! That’s why I left the bus...

      Tuesday, 3:11 am

      I WAKE IN A COLD SWEAT. The dream feels too real. Later, I’ll ask Kim about it. She’s good with dream translation. She’ll know what it means. But I think I already know. I’m not a dumb man. I close my eyes to remember it, praying it isn’t how the girls really felt. It can’t be, I tell myself. There was no cage. Only chains...

      As she sat down, the cold metal seeped into her legs, freezing her already fear-stricken heart. Metal bars were bolted together around her, forming a cage-like barrier.

      She raised a hand, fingers lightly testing the rod before tugging harshly; it gave no way. The girl sighed, lowering her hand while the other clenched onto the fraying edges of her sullied dress. She was placed in the center of a dark room, the slit of the rusted creaking door the only source of light. 

      She vaguely recalls her kidnapping; it was a rush of panic, a force yanking her into a vehicle, muffled voices, and a clear darkness that she has already become accustomed to. She later awoke to metal railings and rusted gray paint flaking off the walls. 

      That was the day that she became the princess in a cage; it was also the day where she met him. Her kidnapper. 

      His voice was hoarse and rough, and when he spoke it crackled like the blade of a whip. He

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