Tell Me I'm Wrong by Adam Croft

Author:Adam Croft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Circlehouse

26

Megan

I’ve seen that face many times when I fall asleep. It’s haunted me ever since that day. Of course, Chris said he didn’t mind whether we had a boy or a girl, and claimed that he was just surprised when the sonographer told us we were having a girl.

I scrutinised his face when Evie was born. I should have been more focused on her, but all that was going through my mind was that Chris was going to be disappointed. That he was going to reject our child. That he was going to resent me for not providing him with a son.

I sometimes wonder if that’s why I’ve had my own problems bonding with Evie. Perhaps I’ve been too focused on keeping Chris happy and making sure he wasn’t genuinely disappointed with our daughter, I’ve let my own care for her slip.

To give him his dues, he’s never given me any sort of indication of disappointment or regret. He’s shown nothing but love for Evie — despite the bonding issues — and I know I have to trust in that.

But my mind won’t stop niggling.

I wonder if this has all been some sort of ‘revenge psychosis’ — if there even is such a thing. Has he been so unable to cope with not being able to have a son that he has felt the need to deprive others of theirs? The thought sounds ridiculous, but I’m well aware of how fragile a person’s mind can be — particularly when under situations of great stress.

All I can keep doing is putting myself in his shoes. Trying to think like him. To have dreamed about having a son for so long, to think he was unable to have any children, then to be presented not only with a daughter, but a wife who was almost completely unable to look after her. He’s had to deal with my own issues after the birth of Evie. It’s been a huge amount to have on his shoulders, and I don’t think anyone could blame him for being mentally fragile.

But it’s a huge, enormous leap from mentally fragile to crazed serial killer. My logical mind just can’t make that jump, and in many ways I’m thankful for that. I don’t want to think that about my husband. Who does?

It’s the sort of thing you read in books and see in films. But it’s reality too, isn’t it? It’s believed that Harold Shipman — Britain’s most prolific serial killer — murdered his hundreds of elderly victims because they reminded him of his own mother. And everyone said the same about him. He seemed so nice. I never would have thought that about him. I guess it’s only natural. If serial killers walked around with crazed looks on their faces, wielding their bloody axes above their heads in the middle of Tesco, they wouldn’t last very long. It’s sheer self-preservation to look and act normal, to blend in.

Everything is starting to make sense. The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place.

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