You don't naturally accept the murder guilt of the young man whose mind you're inhabiting. You evidence his traumatic childhood and illness in mitigation for his ruthless, calculating behaviour. Only by subtle infinitesimal shifts do you realise the complicity he has sucked you into. And then you'll agree this is prime psychopathic psychology. Powerful and uncomfortable reading at its best.
I looked up. The words were swimming in front of my eyes. I felt as if Mother were swinging a shovel against the back of my head. Did I understand what I'd just read? I read it over a few more times to see if I'd got it wrong. But I hadn't. The barrier that had blocked my life had never existed to begin with. My mother had conspired with Auntie to rob me of my life.
Confusion scattered inside my head. I really was a son of a bitch. What a cruel thing this was. It had made my life a ruse. It had made me an idiot.
The way Mother and Auntie had treated me flashed before my eyes. I thought of all the things I'd given up, the things I'd had to accept, the awful nights I'd trembled in despair. All those things had been because I thought I had epilepsy. Rage coursed through my veins; my body burned up like a piece of coal on fire. I felt as if I were breathing inside a blaze. I wanted to run out onto the roof and scream into her face: 'Why? Why did you do this to me?'