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“Can you really blame me?” Daddy asked with a chuckle, squeezing her in his arms and kissing her cheek. “Although to be perfectly fair, there was actually a bit more to it, before the event itself. I'd come across some of the internet porn she'd been reading, when I had to use her computer. Bestiality, daddy-daughter incest, and rape fantasy, mostly. I tried not to think too much of it, just normal teenage curiosity, or so I'd mostly convinced myself. But when I accidentally walked in on her and Bruce, and saw she'd chosen to make at least some of those fantasies a reality... well, I just couldn't resist! I just had to try her out for myself, after they were done!”

Maybe you and I do deserve to suffer for our wrongdoing. If that’s so, then it means that when things get painful, when things get difficult, we don’t have the luxury of quitting. We don’t get to end our lives to escape what we did. Whatever form the pain takes, we bear it, we endure it, we welcome it, all while we try to make this world a place where people like us, like how we used to be, have no place, and the people who would be hurt can instead live in peace. The next time you encounter an obstacle you cannot overcome, when you just want to curl up into a ball and quit on the world, remind yourself that you don’t deserve the peace of surrender. You have to keep working, to keep fighting, to keep suffering, until the day when you’ve fully repented.

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.