Henry's story. The great thing about Henry is that he is what you see in him...here's my version. This gets an M for the usual SH reasons, along with minor language and a few moments of suggestiveness.
Don't own the characters or the locations, although a lot of what goes on in Henry's head (and some of what goes on in Walter's universes) is my own invention.
I know why you're here. You want to know what the hell happened. You know that what was in the papers and on the news is only half of the story, and you want the truth. Same as everyone else. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I only know what I saw. If you want all the answers, you've come to the wrong place.
I'm sorry…that's too harsh. To be fair, where else are you going to go? There's nobody left who would know more than I would, I guess. So, it's fine. You being here. I'm glad you're here, actually. Hell, I need to tell somebody anyway. It works out for both of us.
Come on, Henry. Get on with it.
Where do I begin? I don't know where or when it all started…
I guess I should start by telling you who I am, even though you probably know already. Hello. My name is Henry Townshend, and I'm...heh. I'm not sure how to complete that, actually. Whatever. It doesn't matter. I don't have to figure that out just yet. It can wait.
But this isn't about me anyway. Well, it is, in that I'm the one telling the story, and I was the one who was there. This isn't really my story, though. I'm not the reason for all of this. He was, and this is all about him...and the hell he nearly raised. Still, I suppose you're going to be seeing it through my eyes. You have to consider the viewpoint as well as the subject…the angle, the light, the environment, all of that. So, I'll get the boring background stuff about me out of the way so that you can understand better whose eyes you're borrowing.
Gruesome image? I haven't even gotten started. But I'm rambling again.
I'm twenty-eight years old, and I have an apartment in South Ashfield. Room 302, South Ashfield Heights. But you know that, too. What else? Um...I'm a photographer, which in my case means that I make enough to pay the bills and eat a good meal out every now and then, and little else. That's never bothered me much...when you love what you do, the other things aren't important. At least, they weren't before. I've lived in Ashfield all of my life, except for four years at Pleasant River University just down the road. Got out of there with my B.F.A. in Photography, which made Mom very happy and made Dad give up on me completely.
I guess it's going to be relevant, so I may as well mention it here. I...I'm not a people person. Heh. Not by a long shot. Just your average introverted child of a semi-broken home. Dad left when I was in high school, because I wasn't going to make sergeant in his lifetime (or mine, either), never mind general. I don't talk to Mom much for various reasons that are really nobody's business but mine. You understand. Or maybe you don't. It doesn't matter. The reason I bring this up is to explain...well, some of the reactions I had later. You'll see. Social life…yeah, right. Love life...none to speak of. I briefly dated a woman named Leslie in my junior year of college and...well, that's all you need to know for now. Ordinary guy, ordinary life.
Oh, and I'm a crappy storyteller. Never was able to tell a joke well, still can't. So you can blame somebody else for the content (most of it, anyway), but the way it's laid out and told is all my fault. I'm talking off of the top of my head. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd sit down with the results when it was all done and red-pen things just like I do for Widmark, and shape it as best I could, but even then it wouldn't have that flair, that flow that really good stories have. Cut me some slack...I don't do much with words except read them and copy-edit short blurbs about local attractions. I've never written about anything like this.
Bet that just makes you want to keep going, doesn't it?
God, do I have to do this?
Yeah, I do. Not for you, though. For me. Like I said, I need to tell somebody. You're as good a candidate as any, so here you are. And here I am. So let's do this.
I almost forgot…there's one more thing. I'm a very different person now from who I was then. I'll try to keep that out of it, but if some of my reactions or whatever don't sound like you'd expect…that's because that wasn't the Henry who's writing this. That was the old Henry…and even then, things changed quickly for me. You'll see.
Come on. Stop stalling. You're not one for long-winded anything. This isn't about you anyway. There's a story to be told. Get on with it.
Fine. As Eileen would say, here goes.