Prologue

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"Have a good life, son." She said.

The woman didn't hesitate to drop me off at a foster home at the age of 12. If she hadn't done so, I'm pretty sure Child Protective Services would have taken me out of the house without warning.

The loud pickup truck scurried off the gravel road. I stood there in a state of confusion, but I didn't cry. I don't cry. I simply just don't feel. That was the last time I saw my mother.

Some people believe that her leaving was the reason why I'm so fucked up. Sure, that plays a big role in how you interpret the world, but honestly I'm not sure. I've been this way my whole life and I really don't care.

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