New Title 1 by West Sam

Author:West, Sam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

“My dearest Edward. How I miss you. Not a day goes by when I do not think of you. Not a day goes by when I do not study our son’s face for traces of you. I say our son, as if that will somehow make it true. He may share your name but that is a decision I have come to deeply regret. In doing so I feel as if I have sullied the name of the dearest man in the whole world; the only man I have ever loved. Because he is not yours, is he, my darling Edward? For ten long years I have deluded myself that there was a chance he was, but I can’t lie to myself anymore. Never mind that he doesn't look like you, that fact is secondary. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve searched his face for traces of you; for a hint of your easy smile or a glimmer of something intangible in his features that was quintessentially yours; like the way your clear blue eyes used to permanently sparkle with intelligence and wit and character. When I meet Edward’s flat, muddy gaze, all I see is my own terror reflected back at me. Oh Edward, there is something deeply wrong with my son. I am not a religious person, as you well know, but when I look into his eyes, when I see his essence, his very soul if you will, I see a vicious, stinking cesspit of corruption. Behind those eyes, all I see are unspoken infamies. He scares me, Edward. I wish I’d had an abortion all those years ago, I was a fool to unleash this bastard into the world, a child as every bit as depraved as his father.

“It is not the fact that he has tortured the occasional small animal as a very young child that troubles me the most. As bad as that is, it is his stillness that scares me. Oh, Edward, it is so hard to articulate my terror of him. He is so studied, so composed, almost reptilian in his cold watchfulness.

“I cut myself, not so long ago. Edward… (Oh, how I hate to call him that, so shall we perhaps just call him The Child, for the sake of argument and my sanity?) The Child was eight-years-old, at the time. Old enough to know better. So there I was in the kitchen, wrestling with one of those ghastly cans of corned beef when it slipped in my hand and lacerated my wrist. For a self-inflicted kitchen wound it was pretty bad; I had only narrowly missed opening up the main artery in my wrist. Blood poured from me and splattered on the floor as surely as a fully opened tap, and do you know what he did? He smiled. You have to understand that from The Child, a smile is a rare sight indeed. I remember I was wearing a white sundress and sandals and before I

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