A Suzuki 250

I am 16 years old in this picture. My face shadows hold a thousand hidden tales. It had been twelve years since the murder. I’d become quite hardened to life.

My father was born in the territory of Blount County, Tennessee. He was the walking, breathing definition of a redneck. The indelible ink on his forearm represented his curse. The tattoo was a waving confederate flag with the dark words scratch beneath his skin R E B. A rebel. It was everything my father stood for.

My father would explain that we lived in the foothills of Larch mountain, on the top Livingston. It was a perfect place to hide a body, far away from the outside world. Dad was clever. So clever, he got away with murder.

By the time this picture was taken, my mind had erased all memory of that horrific day, but for the record my body would continue to play. Over and over this would be a reoccurring theme of my life. The little boy in the picture is long gone now. I loved him so. He left with the winds of deception and was carried away by the torrential floods of incest.

My whole family is scattered now, but for those few that remain with the lie.

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