True accounts pt. 1_(1)

These memoirs might come as a surprise, however my story needs to be told. I’m far too mentally famished to face a juror, and too eloquent to be caught other than by self submission. Ironic, yes? Real names will not be used and certain times and dates will be allocated for my personal safety. What I mustn’t change is the details, because in the details is where lies the emotion and passion of my life.

I will say that I do not originate in the states. I’ll begin where I first started my journey to hell. The year was 1978 and I was a man of 19 years. The smell of mother’s buttermilk rolls in the morning filled my nostrils and I stretched; wiping the sleep from my eyes. My sister, Katherine, was in the kitchen with mother preparing breakfast while I groggily stumbled outside to the latrine. The day was young and the sky, painted by God was beautifully scarred with crimson, orange streaks. Father was outside on our porch enjoying a fag, whilst reading the paper. He had a distraught look on his face. His face was wrinkled with worry and his brows furrowed as if to focus closer on his reading. I approached him and tried to make small chat. He gestured with his hand that my company was not welcome. I never really paid any mind to his solidarity because in a way I understood it. I had hellish thoughts that enveloped my consciousness, but a man ought to bury those sins deep in his heart and forget them as father would have said.

Later that day, Katherine was out in our back room bathing. I was lying on my bed reading Dostoyevsky, completely hypnotized by his literary cunning, until I heard my mother screech. It was faint and muffled, it had a familiar sound and I knew I had heard it before. Only this time it was more than just barely audible. I with a calming surreptitious stride walked to my fathers room and peered in.