The first time I truly saw my father for what he was, I was sitting in a hospital visiting room, waiting to hear his version of how he killed his girlfriend. He told me she had begged for it. She had nodded at him, he said, giving him permission as he walked in with the axe and the knife. He claimed he did it all for me, to look insane so he’d get psychiatric care instead of prison, so he could be there for me.
I didn’t fully believe him. But I wanted my dad back more than I wanted the truth. When I was little, the weekend visits with my dad were everything. He was fun, and he made me feel special.
Then the pizza incident happened. He asked if I was hungry, microwaved a pizza, and when I ate the toppings first, he flew into a rage, accused me of lying about being hungry, grabbed the plate, and smashed it. I learned quickly that his moods could turn on a dime. He’d watch gory horror films in front of me, studying them while I sat beside him, too terrified to move, just shutting my eyes and waiting for it to end.
He’d turn off the lights and make me stare at a blank wall, asking if I saw something. When I said no, he’d make me keep staring until I finally said yes just to make it stop. Eventually, I really did start seeing faces and shapes in the walls. I’d beg him to stop, but he’d coldly tell me I needed to get used to it because the spirits were always watching over me.
He’d tell me we were angels sent from hell, and that I’d grow up to be even more powerful and evil than him. When I asked him to stop, he’d laugh like a maniac. Life with my mom was stable and safe. Those weekends with him were the only cracks in that peace.
Then he met Hela. For a little while, everything felt brighter. I called that period paradise. They talked about opening a tattoo studio in their apartment, and she was kind to me.
But the peace never lasted. They’d get into violent, screaming fights, and he never tried to hide them from me. Hela’s family saw the bruises and begged her to leave him, but she always made excuses for him, even when she showed up with her leg fractured in three places, laughing it off as a fall. The last time I ever saw her was the worst week of my childhood.
Everything felt wrong. She was distant and exhausted, slamming pots and cabinets as she cooked. When she put my plate in front of me, she said, “Enjoy your meal. This is the last meal I will ever cook for you because E is going to kill me.
”
A few days later, he did. He slit her throat while she lay resting on her stomach, pressing a pillow against her neck as she bled out. Then he tore apart her clothes, and the reports say he did things to her body that I still can’t fully process. He cut off her head using a knife, then a saw, then an axe.
He cut pieces from her arms and legs, carried them into the kitchen, and cooked them in a frying pan with salt and cannabis leaves. Then he called the police himself, calm, and confessed. He told them he had eaten parts of her. I was nine.
When I asked my mom what happened, she wouldn’t tell me the truth. I found out on my own from a newspaper headline that called my father the Skara cannibal. I felt so sick to my stomach. I couldn’t believe my dad had done that, that he’d actually eaten a human being.
The kids at school started avoiding me just because I was his daughter. He was convicted of murder and sent to forensic psychiatric care instead of prison. At his trial, the evidence was so graphic the court was closed to the public. He showed no remorse.
He said he had no idea why he did it, that it felt like someone else was inside him. He later boasted that he had tricked the doctors into sending him there, that it was all a game. After two long years, I went to visit him at the hospital. I didn’t know which version of my dad I’d meet.
When he walked out, he greeted me softly with, “Hello, my little angel,” and pulled me into a tight hug. I broke down in tears. He was the biggest monster in Sweden, but to me, he was just my dad. I decided to forgive him because if I forgave him, I got my dad back.
I could never get Hela back, but I could have him. That was the beginning of a complete nightmare. Getting him back meant letting him back into every corner of my mind. When I was thirteen, I started using drugs and drinking heavily.
Everyone compared me to him, told me I’d end up just like him. I felt completely isolated, and he saw his chance. He became the only one I had, me and him against the world. I confided in him about the bullying I faced, and instead of comforting me, he handed me a voodoo doll and told me to stick a needle in it wherever I wanted my bully to feel pain.
He encouraged me to shut off my emotions, to lose all empathy, to be just like him. And at that age, I admired him for it. I wanted to feel powerful. I wanted to stop caring.
I was collapsing inside, and he was the only one who seemed to understand. One day, I opened up to him about my pain. He told me he had been waiting for this moment. He took my hand and started reciting a ritualistic chant, telling me to repeat every word.
The words were so disturbing I’ve never spoken them out loud since. After it was over, I felt like my soul had left my body. It felt like we had floated out of the room together into this darkness. He kept manipulating me.
During his furloughs from the hospital, he’d stay at the apartment I rented near him. He became my best friend, the one I called when I felt bad. And then he fed me his version of Hela’s murder. He told me she had begged him to kill her, that she had pushed him to the point of no choice.
He said he killed her brutally so the authorities would think he was insane and send him to care instead of prison. I didn’t fully believe him, but I saw him for the killer he was for the first time. The breaking point came when he screamed at me over the phone one day. The one person I believed truly understood me shattered me.
When I confronted him later at my apartment and asked for an apology, he exploded, cursed at me, and threatened to kill me. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife to defend myself, but by the time I had the nerve to use it, he had already stormed out. The moment I realized he was gone, I collapsed into tears. That was it.
I was nineteen, and I walked away from my father for good. I felt like I wanted to get away from that part of my life and leave it behind. My mother helped pull me out of the darkness he’d spent years trying to drag me into. She reminded me I was love and light, that I could never be like him.
For the first time in years, I felt safe. In 2020, my father was released from the psychiatric hospital for outpatient treatment. In October of 2024, after four years of complete silence, I sat down with him again, hoping for closure. The reunion was filmed for a documentary series.
He told me he had been weak when he committed the murder, that he had once had everything and wanted to be the best father in the world. He admitted he had frightened me as a child because he thought he was preparing me for the world, but now he knew he was only preparing me for his world. When I asked him about the ritual, he asked if it had made my life easier. Shockingly, I admitted that in some ways it had.
He said he was proud of it. When shown a picture of him with Hela, he felt nothing. He still blamed her, claimed she wanted him to do it. He insisted, “It’s not murder.
I am not the murderer. ”
He did apologize, which he had never done before. Maybe it was genuine. Maybe he just knows how to act like a normal person when he wants to.
But I chose to forgive him, not for his sake, but to finally free myself from the weight of the past. I’m 23 now. I’m a mother of two. I’ve built a stable and fulfilling life.
I refuse to hide in shame because of my father. I wrote a book about growing up under the control of a psychopath. Hela’s family still grieves her loss, and my father never served a single day in prison. Her sister said he could walk free while she’s left with nothing but anger and unanswered questions.
As for me, I’m happy now. Everything is good. I’m safe.
And I know, deep down, that I never was my father’s darkness.
