I began to cry, thinking it was because I was gay, but as the police took me away, I realized it was my necrophilia fetish that set her off. It started innocently enough, with me sneaking into the cemetery to satisfy my urges. But as time went on, the corpses no longer provided enough pleasure. I needed something fresher, more alive. And that’s when I met him.
He was a runaway, only fifteen years old. I promised him money in exchange for his company, but it was more about the thrill of being with a living body than anything else. We went to my house, and I carefully arranged the body of a dead girl on the bed so that he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
But when my mother walked in, I knew I was in trouble. She didn’t understand, didn’t see the beauty in what I was doing. Instead, she saw me for the monster I was. The police took me away, and I was left alone with my thoughts. How could she not understand? How could she not see the beauty in my passion?
But as time went on, I began to realize the error of my ways. I sought help, went to therapy, and even turned myself in for what I had done. And though I knew I could never undo the past, I hoped that one day my mother might be able to forgive me, and see the person I truly was inside.
