The Bad Seed of the Underworld

Summary

I was born bad. A rotten seed down to the marrow.

When I was seven, the boy next door told me I was garbage nobody wanted. By sundown, I’d snapped three disposable-camera photos of his father slipping into a motel room with his dental hygienist and taped copies across every mailbox in the cul-de-sac. His parents divorced by Thanksgiving; after that, nobody wanted him, either.

When I was eight, our foster home’s live-in housekeeper kicked me down the basement stairs. That night, I emptied two economy bottles of lavender bath gel across the sloped porcelain of her tub.