“Do it again, immediately after,” my mother whispered to me. I was 12. I had tried to use a waterslide, only to nearly drown. I was scared. I was traumatized. But then she whispered those words. They say if you do something that scared you again right after the first time, you get used to it. My family raised me with those words. It made us strong, they said. So I looked into my mother’s eyes, squared my shoulders, and went back to slide once more.

The second time around, I remembered to swim up. I didn’t drown.

I was 19. I had conquered numerous fears and corrected a thousand mistakes using my mother’s advice. I was invincible. Nothing could scare me anymore.

I lost my virginity at 23. I was so scared. It hurt. I couldn’t feel or see the appeal of sex. This would be the last time, I thought. Then, I frowned. No. I grabbed my partner, looked him in the eye and said, “once more”. Thus, my unquenchable thirst began.

I was 24 when I became a member of the red-light district. I couldn’t stop.

I was almost 25 when my family disowned me. It hurt. I frowned, steeled myself. I went back again the day after they kicked me out, bringing apologies and a vulnerable heart. They shut the door. Again. It stopped hurting after that.

I was 28 when my boyfriend admitted he was seeing someone else. I stared into his eyes. After what I gave up for him. After what he turned me into. After all I had lost. He swallowed and looked away. I remember those eyes I begged “once more”.

I hated them.

I hit them with the first thing I grabbed. The scissors took his vision. I remember dropping it in horror. Then I frowned. Picked it back up. And then they took his life when I sunk it into his heart. Twice. Thrice. Again.

I buried him in a back alley. In a dumpster. And I asked for his forgiveness.

I was 28 when I went back home and collapsed trembling. I had killed a man. I wanted to hide and never get out again.

But then I frowned.

No.

That wasn’t right.

I was 28 when I got a new boyfriend.