I don’t remember much about my life. I guess my brain shut out as much as it could, a biological fail safe, a way to lock up all the demons and memories of demons in a deep dark place. A place where they could never escape where their horrid heads would never be seen again. The only mark of their existence being the gaps in my memories, some filled with fabricated experiences. Tales weaved subconsciously to cover up the pain, stories even if couldn’t believe. But they had to do. People ask questions and expect answers, without these fabrications how would I pacify their curiosities?

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