Prologue

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All stories start somewhere. Where your best friend's may begin in the safe confines of her room, your dad's might commerce near a local bar. The sad part about the whole thing is the fact that no one really cares where you started from. Judgement is everywhere-there's no way to escape it. People you meet will come and go, friends will grow distant, and family will die off. No one will always be there to reassure you that everything is okay.

Unfortunately, I got the shitty end of the stick. My story originates in a hospital, surrounded by sweet and plump little nurses. I will spare you of the gory details, the sickening and gruesome, yet true. I had been visiting my father; Brennan Walsh was the former CEO of some major company-one I never learned to appreciate, hence not knowing the name. He was a replica of the definition of 'douche', in all forms. Although I'm sure he never knew how bitchy he came across, I have to hope that in Hell, he was given a taste of his own medicine.

My father was the one who taught me that women were toys; things to be played with, then disposed of when you got sick of them. My mother was never in the picture-having bailed as soon as she dropped my ass on the threshold of my father's mansion. While my dad wanted to kill me, he knew murder wouldn't look great on his resume.

He was diagnosed with Syphilis two years before his death, living his last days as boldly as possible. I had just entered the room, after checking to make sure I wasn't going to walk into an ugly sponge bath. He died peacefully-I can't say the same for life after death, though. I was thirteen at the time, and all I can remember is shivering once the barren wind hit my bare shoulders. Exiting the sanitarium was an event. I soaked up the freedom temporarily before realizing the harsh reality.

I was all alone.


"There's more to stories than it seems at first looking," she said. "Two sides to most stories. Folks better be thinking about that for once."

― Augusta Scattergood, Glory Be

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