I am haunted by this memory, a dream of a child, lively, innocent, friendly, kind, beloved. I am not this boy, but I knew him. I am haunted by this memory that reminds me what I am not. In the end, I am just a weak, conniving, scheming, scoundrel who can do no more than plan, work for, enact betrayal most deep to destroy this innocence, this naivete at the world. To show a child the real world for the first time is a despicable act, contemptible by even the roughest of scum in prisons, and to force this on that innocent child is a deplorable dream of a mad mind that has long past without sleep, without knowing the touch, the laughter, the love of another. The only one who smiles at this raving lunatic is this memory, this fevered imagination that he should not be the only miscreant, drove him to this, to create this new man, broken, hollow, raving, alone. I am haunted by this memory, of childhood, of innocence, of blood-free hands.