I suppose that my story is like his. Death, pain, hate, love. It is the same thing for everyone, maybe. I don't really know. I am not everyone else. I could tell you that my work, living as other people, being other people, gives me intel into who other people are.
It doesn't.
But this isn't about them.
This isn't about him.
This is about my story.
This about me. My past. My future. My present. I look him in the eyes and pray that I have the time to tell my story before it is all over. I know that he will listen to me, but I also know that he won't believe me. After all that I have done, I wouldn't trust me either. I look at him and tell him about my past, hoping that it will buy me time to do what I need to do.