My name is Justin Russo and I have a problem. I don't want to go into too much detail because it's too painful for me to admit, but I will admit it eventually. I just think that you need to hear the whole story, from the beginning. But while I'm telling this story, I want you to do a few things for me. First of all, I want you to not interrupt me. Some things may come up that are a little bit... well frankly some people find them vile and contemptuous , nevertheless do not say anything until the story is over. Then I promise you, you will be allowed to spew your wretched hatred all over this poor soul, however the second thing I ask of you is that you understand that this is not my fault. Maybe you'll disagree, but at least keep a mind open enough to believe that the events as they unfolded were a product of environment, actions of others and thrice-cursed biology.
This knowledge, living with what I have done, is driving me mad. It's not exactly guilt – though I think I ought to feel guilty and perhaps it's all the worse that I don't. No, this emotion is more like...nostalgia, but of a painful variety that teases you when you're lying in your bed late at night, reminding you of something so forbidden and enticing at the same time – something you may never have again. At the same time, I fear discovery. How someone could find out about the disturbing things I did, I do not know. Besides me there was only one other witness and I believe that she is just as likely to want to keep it secret. I have no idea if she's told anyone – I know I haven't. Nevertheless I await that time when I will be awoken by the sudden explosion of my door, drug away, interrogated and beat. By whom, I do not know. In my fantasy there are always two of them. They wear gray suits. One of them is always a six foot tall man so muscled that he's almost three feet wide at the chest. The other varies from a relative clone of him (albeit sometimes another race), to a petite blonde woman. Another unchanging detail is that they both have stone-cold faces, chiseled out of granite or ebony. They are merciless enforcers of an unknown agency.
And I feel like I am being watched. Until that fateful day when I am taken away (and with mercy, killed!) I constantly look over my shoulder. I walk down hallways sideways so that I can quickly switch my vision from up the hall to down it. I always sit with my back to the wall and when walking down the street I half-expect to be stopped short in my tracks by a well placed sniper. Oh if only! Death's sweet release could end this in less than a heartbeat.
But no, that wouldn't be fair to her... oh God, perhaps the only thing worse than the anxiety is the love. For that to be ended! It is far more painful than you read in poetry or literature, even those works which paint it in an agonizing light. Love is more like being nauseous all the time, feeling like one has to throw up constantly but never actually doing so. Even if you did - and I have forced it at times - it doesn't make the feeling go away.
Then again, maybe it's only the person I love who causes it...and even then it's only because of what others would think. When I am actually with her, the nausea subsides, though the paranoia never totally dims.
By now, your curiosity has either been piqued or you've stopped. Well, I hope for your sake you've stopped, but I know that if you're reading this you haven't and you want to hear the rest of the tale. Well sit down, it's a long story and it involves incest...