I believe it is time to introduce you. Your past, that most beautiful of stories which by some fluke you chose to bestow upon me, is my most closely guarded secret. I shall not tell them all. But it is impossible for any who might stumble upon and read this tale of you and I to understand you if they are not even given the chance. There are some things they must be told.
To you, idle reader, I say this: All that I tell you know is true, truth as I know it to be. But who is to measure such a thing as truth, as reality? Such a fickle concept born of change and defined by each as they see their own, with no set value of right and wrong. I am by no means the one to ask of "truth." Just know that this is a version of reality, the reality I believe and hold as truth. A reality that may or may not be shared, but which I believe to be so.
So my dear reader, so my dear soldier, where in this dark tale shall I begin? Can I begin? Much of this is not mine to tell, so I may only lay the groundwork...But I shall give you, reader, what I can, so that you might better understand the life and circumstance of which you are reading. So that you might stand some chance of understanding this man, and perhaps even my love for him.
My beloved soldier...As much as I hate to admit it, that is exactly what you are. It is not you job which makes you so, but rather the world you have experienced, the world that has made you. I have been given brief windows into that world, and the picture beyond that foggy glass is not one of beauty and childhood memories.
It is an ugly world.
There is no love in a place like this alien world where you were born. There is no love in a world where a child's own father...
Forgive me. I did not expect it to be this difficult for me to tell a tale that is not even my own.
Where a father can look his child, so young, so dear, in the eyes--and hold a gun to that precious, youthful face. Where this man; who once loved this woman, surely loved her enough to wed her, to raise a child with her; can now threaten her with the life they both gave rise to. Your Freedom or Your Son. I command you choose.
No one has the right to make that order.
And this, my Love, is how you became a soldier. And this, dear reader, is how this man lost his youth when he was but three years old. A warrior when he could barely talk.
This, cruel world, is how Love began to leak from this precious life...
How could God be so cruel to one man? Was not this start, this introduction to life and existence, morbid enough? Why must things always get worse?
And how much worse they got...
For after one man comes another. This man...He is a monster, my soldier, my love. I know he is what you have to call a "father," but he is worse than the man who threatened your life. I do not know how much I should tell here. The details revealed before you have given in public yourself, but this...This is a private matter.
There are so many reasons I hate this man. He, truly, is the worse of your life's transgressors. He played with your heart, the heart of a young boy yearning for a father more than anything else, in a way that is truly sick. He beat you, my love! This sick bastard dared to hurt you! Truly his physical cruelty is unmatched! But even worse is the way he twisted your child's heart, feeding you hope, then merely yanking it away! Running away, deserting you, the coward! The sick fuck! The monster! Leaving someone who had been taught the meaning of worthless his whole life...
You have whispered stories of what he had done to you, while playing the role of "father." I can feel the pain that burns in you still. He was all you ever had, and he...With that power he crushed you. But even so, his abuse you could handle, you could fight, young warrior. His leaving...You cannot even hope to fight what is not there.
With his departure, the hole in your heart through which the sands of Love were leaking widened further, a gaping wound bleeding out your hope. You were thirteen. You were a child. And already, you were so very much the warrior...
Now your mother...Your poor, poor mother: Weak woman, Immortal woman, Invincible woman, Invulnerable woman.
Looking down upon you, thirteen, bleeding, broken, abused, alone but for her...Looking down upon you, her child, little ball of her own life, your face peaceful in sleep...Looking down upon you, she cast you out.
She, abused and hurt herself, wild and desperate, lost in despair, cast you from your home, from her, when you needed both most.
She left you with nothing.
But you, brave warrior, soldier of the streets, simply did what you had been doing all your life. You fought. You survived. The streets became yours and you were alive.
But tragedy is your one true stalker, my friend.
God is truly cruel.