My mother was a happy woman before, bright blond hair full of life; she wanted nothing but the best for me.
When my father left it was just we; the two peas living inside the pod of her love, nothing more, no money, no food, just love. I can remember my mother and I spent every waking hour together planning our days: holding hands in crowed places, running through rain showers, a raindrop for each we caught them in hands open to the moment, playing secret games of whispering like excited school girls under teepees made with linen sheets the blazing candles aflame with the mystery of tomorrow. I remember sleeping in her arms, just the two wrapped up as one we shared a bond of comrades in battle against a huge world ready to eat us up and spit us out. She cared for me as her own body before Black arrived, she loved me everyday, she shielded nothing, and this would prove a passing whim of loyalty.
Mr. Black became my answer, he brought food, and he brought love a kind I had never felt, control I had never seen. Black was my lover as well I now know, dark and sadistic, he held with in me a long time a wanting that does not cease. He, the man I speak, was love, was hate, was wanting, was fulfillment; was he the lost man I was to become? Or was he the man I would wish would love me back years later? Black was in his time the only person who I could say felt me deeply. He would also prove to be a painful memory.