With so much time in my hands, I suppose I should tell you the whole story and start it

where it should be started, the beginning.

When I was young, and I mean roughly five or six years old, I thought that it was my

imagination.

The voices speaking in sinister tones were nothing more than the sounds of my young conscience.

I thought they kept me safe, they held me understand what I should be doing to keep up with

my friends since they were all I had.

See, I was the only child raised at home and my parents did what they had to to keep me

alive, but they never really wanted me.

They gave me a room and food and drink basically just what they were required to, you know,

that would keep DHS from showing up.

But they never played with me, it really showed me any affection.

I was more like a pet to them or a houseplant.

I barely spent any time in my house always playing in the woods just beyond our backyard.

I play by myself mostly, but sometimes I'd have one of the neighbor kids to play with.

We would build forts and set booby traps to keep people out.

The trap making skills of a young child, my age, were always much more of a concept than

any form of actual danger or deterrent, but it did help me pass hours and hours of

time as I played alone in the forest.

I think my solitude is what brought the voices to me in the first place, you know, as I grew,

most of what I learned about the world was from the neighborhood kids going to school

for me was difficult because I could hardly concentrate with the screams and shouting

...