Chapter 2 - The First Warning Signs

I have grown up in a small town in a remote and poor region of Hungary, near the frontier.
I had been a happy child, except when I had to go to school which I detested: I was a bright student, but I hated the company of other children. Neither did they like me, they felt uncomfortable when they came near me or touched me. Thus they ostracised me.
Initially my parents and my grandma had noticed nothing unusual. They loved me (they still do), back then we could get along well. My parents and my grandmother had college diplomas and they could not imagine anything else for me.
I had not got any siblings, and I was happy this way. I was a lonely child, but I did not mind that. I enjoyed playing alone at a nearby abandoned construction site, in the garden, and, of course, I loved reading. The characters of my good old books, were much more real than my classmates. In my imaginary world I was safe. I spent my childhood by reading stories and creating my own ones. I am still glad to recall that carefree and delightful time.
As a child, I adored my grandma. She has been a tough and stubborn person, most people feared her, but with me she was different, warm-hearted and caring. As a little girl, I loved to play in her room, on her green carpet - that ancient dark green carpet still has been covering the floor of her room.
I was fond of Pink Panther. I even founded a Pink Panther Club, and could make one member join (it was my best friend, Zsuzsika). I hated dolls though. I knew they were sweet and girlish, yet I loathed them all the same. I had some dolls, I even played with them sometimes, but sooner or later I undressed them, cut off their hair and painted their faces blue and green with felt-tip pens, sometimes I broke off their arms and poked them with needles.
My parents were startled to discover that I loved weird things from the age of nine: Gory police news, horror films, Gothic novels. I enjoyed detailed descriptions of outrageous crimes: Women who murdered their babies; psychotic sect leaders who performed human sacrifice. I enjoyed elaborative descriptions of medieval torments. I read long articles about Karla Homolka and Charles Manson. I devoured stories about abused women. I could not understand what "love" was between women and men, but I knew about their games of control, and I suspected it was something dangerous and painful. I liked reports about prostitutes, either penniless Hungarian girls from the streets or the red light district of Amsterdam
Probably it was the first warning sign for my parents. They were the most rational and commonplace people, gentle yet narrow-minded. Their worries seemed funny for me, but not for them.