boston {h.s.}

six.

Dear Reader,

Unfortunately, I find myself interjecting. Primarily, allow me to apologize: I know how jarring it can be to slip in and out of the natural ebb and flow of—what I hope—is an engaging story. In the telling of this story, I have already made many creative choices and taken such liberties as the author. For example: I applied the present tense. As a teacher I like to assume the best of my students until they make me think otherwise. The same logic applies to you, as my reader. So I assume that you've noticed me telling this in the present tense. A conscious choice, one that I made so that the retrospective critiquing and overbearing regret—though, now I falter, as I am not entirely certain if regret is the right word. I can't claim that this is my honest recount of transpired events if I were to say that I regret what happened because after separation from the events, I can certify that I do not.

Regardless, the point in my interjection aligns with the point of my retelling of the story in the present tense. Here I choose to highlight certain things. For example: the fact that I choose for my previously present and naïve stylistic thinking to take priority over the retrospective hindsight. Simply: I am putting you, as the reader, in the moment. I am allowing you to see things the way that I did and feel things the way I felt them.

More subconsciously, I hope that this type of narration humanizes me. In the time since the culmination of events that warrant my exposure at all, it pains me to see the horrible things said about me. In this sense, I think we are all narcissistic. Or, at least, I hope we are. I hope that it pains everyone to see their name dragged through the mud in the same way that it did, me. Although, that also is not entirely accurate. I suppose I should preface my hopes with the overarching thought that I hope no one ever experiences that level of pain and suffering.

Of course, now, I wonder whether I am just beating a dead horse, for lack of better expression.

I wonder whether you, my readers, will now question my innocence; whether you will continue to make me the villain. Independently, I wonder whether I deserve it. Admittedly, there is an associated comfort in my initial claim: there is no convenient ending here. Partially, because this story hasn't ended. This story will never end: it is the story of my life, it is the story of my brother's life, of Harry's life, and everyone else involved. I find it rather ignorant to claim that this story would neatly pack up and move on following the immediate aftermath of presently unexplained events. If you know me, I'm sure you have your assumptions. Alternatively, I implore you to withhold judgment. To experience the world and the whirlwind in the same way that I did. Otherwise, I fear I am writing this pointlessly.

I saw no option other than starting at the beginning. I saw no other option than to tell it in the mindset that I experienced then. This, of course, being the basis for my present interruption. I hope you trust me when I tell you that I tried to stay away. I tried to find equilibrium in my relationship with Asher and I would like to say that I am certain that Harry did the same. At least, that is what he told me. Neither of us knew what proportions we were about to blow up into. We had no way of knowing. Though, equally, I don't think that would have stopped us.

Reader(s): I hope I haven't yet deterred you. I hope still you are inclined to hear my side of the events. I hope you know that I am committed to the most unbiased presentation. I hope you trust me. I hope you know that I am only trying to do what is right.

Ever loving and gracious,

Margeaux Beauchamp