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Allow me to preface the beginning of my story with this short note; I do not claim to remember that which happened before my birth, or even that of my younger life, but thanks to the journal of my father I can tell my entire story...

In a small town in Ireland an upper class couple were preparing to bare their first child. The town was quaint, friendly, full of people living their lives as they do. Many of the knew my parents or at least knew of them. My father came from a wealthy family, while my mother came from the lower class, a family of impoverished service workers. She was the daughter of a nanny that looked after my father all the way up to his teens. From what I read they were rather close, always together, almost as if they were meant to be forever. Well as you can well imagine they were married, despite the protests of their families, but this isn't about that story.

The night of my birth it was sleeting, many of those in the lower class without proper heating nearly froze to death, I believe even one died died of pneumonia. My mother, being the naturalist that she was decided on a home birth, and my father did not see an issue with that. It was a moonless December night, about three a.m. After several hours of struggle, finally I was born into the hands of the family doctor who soon handed me to my father. He had wrote that this night, was both the happiest and saddest night of his life. Unfortunately, my mother died in childbirth, it seems the stress was simply too much for her. I was a perfect child, brought into this world without even so much as a cry from myself.

A funeral service was held for my mother about 2 weeks after her death. The rain had since subsided but a groggy, wet, mist had clung to the air. The graveyard was unusually green, weeping willow trees scattered the ground, the fog making the emerald grass shimmer. The cold, gray tombstones a beautiful, almost haunting contrast to the natural beauty of the lush fields. The catholic minister delivered his service and my father gave a beautiful eulogy, at least he said he did. I certainly wished he would have written it down. They laid my mother in the ground and my father took myself home, he hadn't been the same.

Let us fast forward just a couple years, I doubt you would like to read about the years of my infancy. I was five years old; precocious, curious, full of intrigue of the world around me. I would often play in our vast back yard, I even had my own little special spot about fifty yards out. Among a few fallen, moss covered logs and some rolling, green hills. I spent so much of my childhood there, discovered so much about myself and my..fascinations. It was in this very spot I learned of death. I was playing, running around in a gleeful splendor when I heard a loud crunching sound. I looked down and it had seemed I stepped on an insect. I looked at it curiously and wondered why it was no longer moving. For some reason this had..startled me, I ran to my father insect in hand and showed him. I had asked him "why wont this bug move dad?" He had simply replied "because son, it is dead." I do remember that I stared blankly at him, not really sure of what this meant. "What..what does that mean dad?" I remember a sad look coming to his face and he didn't respond for a few seconds. But he did finally speak and I was shaken. "Well...son..death is when a soul leaves a body..when a being ceases to be in this living realm. I don't expect you to understand so young, but death is as inevitable as life." I left dumbstruck, I went back to my special spot in the yard, stared at the dead insect for a few minutes..and cried. I cried for hours, a feeling of dread that washed over me for hours. When my father finally found me I was a wreck, I felt such a great pain for taking away another living things life.

But some time had come by, I hadn't spent much time outside in favor of my father teaching me how to read, and quite well at that. For such a young child it wasn't unheard of to be taught his reading skills from finer works like Edgar Allen Poe and Mark Twain, but damn was it unusual. At the time I resented my father for making me read such difficult works of literature. But he saw something special in me, maybe because I was his only child, all he had left in the world, or maybe because I really was more intelligent than others my age. I was often belligerent whenever I was forced into my daily three hours of reading, many times I would throw a fit, for which I was disciplined severely. At severely in my own world view, after all what child enjoys being spanked? But eventually I fell in line and took to my reading without too much of a fuss..and now, I am grateful for that...

By the time I was six I was back in my special spot, but rather than playing I would read. I loved all kinds of books; from Hemingway, to Capote, to even Rowling. I was getting lost in my little Harry Potter fantasy when I saw a rather large winged insect landed on my book. I at first just brushed it off, but it kept coming back...For some reason this irritated me..I was sure this insect was trying to mock me. So, purely out of irritation I removed its wings. It tried to run away but I just smiled and gently pressed my padded thumb to it, softly pushing it into my book. I had a strange sense of..power from this, I loved knowing that no matter how hard it tried it would not be able to escape. I proceeded to slowly, lovingly remove its legs, one by one by one..It was still alive, just a head and torso. I was laughing at this point, amazed that even after that it was still alive. So what brilliant idea did I have to finish it off? I ate it. Well fuck, I was still SIX. But damn if I wasn't so satisfied with myself. I never told my father, something inside of me felt it was wrong..but that made me like it even more. And it was the first of many secrets I began keeping from him. My first experience with total control, and I wanted more.

Fall had come, leaves were turning a myriad of wonderful colors. Orange, yellow, brown..the air was cold and crisp, a wonderful wind chill in the air. The streets were littered with dead leaves, the birds were all flying away, oh God did I hate birds..It was my first day of kindergarten, and to be frank I was really nervous. I was always sheltered, I never interacted with other children, only my father. I remember it was a very sunny morning, maybe around forty five degrees out and a slight mist was floating above the ground. My father held my hand in front of the school, he was holding on tighter than normal. I later read that he was scared too, it was the first time he had to let his only son go off on his own without him. He guided me to my classroom and kneeled down to my eye level, looking a little sad...I won't forget what he said. " Son..you will find when you go in there that you are..different. The children in there will not be like you..I want you to make sure that none of them treat you poorly, you are smarter than them, better than them, let none of them put you down. I love you." I just nodded and walked into the large room.