Charleston's Scarlet Door

1

DIARY

I didn’t mean to kill.

Not the first time, anyway.

It got easier, of course.

With time.

With distance.

With . . . practice.

As all things do.

That’s not to say I enjoyed it. I’ve never enjoyed killing, not as one might take pleasure in the finer things of life—the touch of someone you love, a first lick of ice cream, a soft bed after a grueling day.

The scent of a puppy. Who doesn’t like the smell of a puppy?

No, killing has never been one of those things for me.

It’s been a means to an end—an obstacle to overcome.

A burden placed before me, then carried heavily upon my shoulders.

Some might say it’s a skill; I suppose there’s some truth to that.

Others might say killing can be an art. I wouldn’t disagree with them, either.

Had you asked Mother or Father, they’d tell you killing was akin to survival, as it had been since the dawn of time.

I imagine all that can be a difficult pill to swallow, particularly since we’ve just met, and I’ll completely understand if you decide you want no part in what I’m about to tell you.

There is no shame in closing the cover and walking away.

God knows, had that been an option for me, I surely would have taken it.

Unfortunately, you can’t close a book when the story is unfolding around you.

Not when it’s your story. The only way forward is to turn the page.

My name is Anson Bishop, and this is how it all began.

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