Honour thy father and thy mother, they say. Well I say that we should honour and respect only those who deserve it. This so-called rule makes no sense to me at all and I believe that it should be discussed from a philosophical point of view. Letʼs take an example of a young girl from a poor family who is sold by her parents to a pimp; how can she find any ounce of respect for them in her being? How must she be feeling? Betrayed, abandoned, unloved, abused, and, considering her future work, raped? Do those parents deserve to be honoured? I think not. Her hatred for them is a product of their bad decisions, not hers. It is obvious that her life is going to be full of misery, danger, and after a decade of whoring herself, she will become nothing more than a waif with a painted face, standing in a dark alley and giving what is left of her body in order earn something to eat. Of course, if her pimp doesnʼt take everything she had earned. Hereʼs another example: a boy left to fend for himself in the street. His parents have had too many children and they had to get rid of him, for there was no way for them to feed and clothe him anymore. Is that responsible behaviour? Not to mention the fact that the other children were sent to slave in mines in order to bring some money home. A burgeois would probably ask Why did they make so many children? Isnʼt there another way for them to solve their problems? No, there isnʼt. There is no fairy to wave her wand and make it all go away. But now Iʼm going into general topics, so Iʼll return to the original problem. What I am trying to say is that there are no real obligations of uncondiotional love in families, like we believe there are. Throughout history, royals and nobles were slaughtering their kith and kin just to get their hands on fortune, title, rank or throne. This proves that they didnʼt feel any need for mutual love and respect, which automatically means that the myth of love in families is utter nonsense.
I loved my mother because I admired her strength, warmth, imagination and kindness. She loved me because I was her treasure and the only light point of her life. When these reasons combined, they formed a bond which we call love. Pure simple reasons, cause and consequence, not the usual need to force oneself to love just because it was expected by others and because it was in accordance with the mores of our society. But the man who sired me, for I refuse to call him father as he is unworthy of the name, took that precious creature away from me. I still remember how I used to hide under the table as he would shout at her and call her the slut of Satan. I was afraid. Very afraid. And it would only get worse when he started to beat her. She would try to defend herself, but he was too strong. And at the end of each beating, when she was lying on the floor, he would haul her up and take her to their bedroom, and he would always lock the door behind them. I wasnʼt sure at the time what he was doing to her in there, but I could only hear more screams and the sound of clothes ripping. As I got older, when I learned the truth, I got the urge to gauge that manʼs eyes out and then prepare him for a vivisection.
These are the reasons why I hate him, for they are more than justified, and that is how I proved that love between people is not necessarily linked by the fact that they are of the same flesh and blood.
As I am writing this, I am gazing at the full moon and the night sky. During every full moon, mother would sneak out with me and we would run in the forest, protected by the darkness. I would hear the howling of the lonely wolf. –Do you hear it, Ichabod? Our familiar is saluting us!
And then she would howl back. As she did that, I noticed how there were wolves slowly emerging from the bush around us. They would approach her and she would caress their fur. It was obvious that she was their mistress and I their future master. She was so full of joy to see them and she would sing a song in a language I have never heard before. And as she did, all the flowers around us would open their petals towards the shining moon. Those were the nights were I knew that my mother was the most wonderful person in the world, Nature incarnate that came to honour the world with her presence and has chosen me to be her apprentice. Magical, yes, magnificent, absolutely. But mortal, nonetheless.
Bruises could be seen on her arms, calves and thighs, and that is why she would always wear long-sleeved heavy dresses even in summer. After she was executed, every time I would pass next to the church, I would spit on the ground and mumble a few curses in Latin, the language my mother taught me with such love and patience. It became my mission and duty to protect freethinkers and the innocent from the tyranny of the fanatics and the stupid. That was a vow I made when I placed a lock of my hair on her grave. She was buried on a crossroad, the place where they always put the bodies of criminals and witches, so their souls could be lost and wandering forever, with no chance of ever coming back to haunt those who took their life away in the name of a nonexistent god.
There was a man brought in today, accused of murder of his brother and wife. There is a witness that says that he shot them both when he caught them fornicating, but there is something not right with his story, considering the fact that the accused man has never used a gun or pistol in his life and the obvious fact that he is missing an index and a middle finger on his right hand, which he lost in a violent fight only a month ago. They say that he must have shot him with his left hand, but how could a man, who has used only his right hand all his life, become so deft with is left in only a monthʼs time? I have to abandon these writings for now and read through the whole case once more, in hope that I can help the poor wretch.
Ichabod Crane, November 13th, 1795