I am a broken man. But I am a man, nontheless. I held her small delicate fingers into my hands, hoping-no. Praying for redemption. I unload my pistol, let te bullets rattle onto the grassy floorground.  I place myself on a seat in the ambulance watching doctors try their hardest to save my daughter. My two-week old baby girl.

I watch as perimetics put tubes down my baby's throat hoping to God that they'd save her in some way. I should open my mouth. Come clean. I am a man. A smart man. But I am a stranger to my own flesh and blood. Motorcycles are swirling around outside the ambulance, hopefully moving out of the way of the vehicle. My daughter's small delicate fingers in the palm of my hands and I move my fingers back-and-forth from finger-to-finger.

My wife confessd to an affair. We quirled a good long while. Woke the baby from it's nap. My wife collapses to the ground; her fall echoes along the fresh mahogany floor. I should've never had agreed to a baby. I guess that's why it's called an accidental pregnancy.

I grew up a broken boy. Abused. Neglected. I was born Lucifer. "You're  Mom named you. Not me," was my Dad's quick remark when I asked how I was born. "You are you're Mamma's boy in every way," But my very first childhood memory was my mom calling me "it". Here I am. Ninteen years later. A young cop. A cop with a foul temper.  I don't know why I agreed to start a family. I don't even trust myself. I am a stranger to myself. Born into a family who never wanted me. I have two younger sisters whom are equally loved by parents who wanted them. Maybe it's because I wasn't a girl that I was trates so cruely. Once I learned how to self-advocate for myself, my Mother tried to cut my tounge out. I watched my Mother poison my father when I was eight years old. I didn't realize it at the time. I learned what the true meaning behind my name when I was eighteen. A police officer told me.

A spelling Bee was to be held on Monday. A few days earlier, Dad pickedme up from school. "A big weekend comin' you're, way, huh, L?" he says, wobbling my had side-to-side.

I grin and reply, "Got any big plans up you're sleeves, Daddy?"

When we got home, Daddy leans toward the back of the truck and brings out a Best Buy bag. "Open it up, Son. See what'cha got."

I do as I'm told and when we get inside. we hooked the CamCorder up to te 1990's Macintosh Computer. Dad, dropped a wire, so I bent down on the ground to fech it. Sara(Mother) came home with the girls. "Getting ready for the Spelling Bee, Sweetie," Daddy said to Sara. The girls and I were sent to our rooms after that.

After dinner, I heard alarming noises. Noises no child should hear. So I get up an quietly exit my room. I look down the stairs and there's Sara, with an ax coming behind my daddy. I went to sleep in my sisters' room.

I never knew it was murder until ninteen years later. I just knew that that grotesque vomit sensation I felt was unsettling and it was bad. My Mother married my uncle what felt like immediately after the Wake.  I was told to call her Sara after that.

After the Wake, Sara gave my sisters, Clairabelle and Danielle new baby dolls because "it's what Daddy would of wanted for you, girls."

At eight years old, Sara branded a crucifix on my left wrist. Apparently I was bad. All I did was help my Dad work the new CamCorder.

As I got older, Sara got more and more scary. I  knew at young age, that I did not want children of my own.

I became a stranger to my family and a stranger to myself. I  knew very early on that I did not want children of my own. I did not trust myself with a human being in that form.

I memorized both the Old and New Testaments of the Holy Bible. After school, instead of doing homework, I'd be chained in the bathroom by handcuffs and forced me to memorize Bible Verses. Sara would unlock the bathroom and unlock the handcuffs once Daddy came home. But after he died, my uncle abused me as well. Maybe worse. I'm not even going to begin to tell you how I learned about sex. That's a story for anoher day.

Anyways, if a friend at school asked to spend the night, I'd tell them, "I think I know the answer, but I'll ask anyways."

As a result, my answer was being locked in the refrigerator until my sisters found me. They'd scream of course and, Sara acting like a responsible mom, acted all panick-like and brought me to the hospital. Blamed it on Uncle Paul of course, then lied to the doctor about getting a divorce.

At eighteen years old, I faked my death. Rode on bus cross country. Landed 3000 miles away in Los Angelas. and changed my name to Arthur Montgomery. My biological dad's name. I studied my absolute hardest to become a cop.

But here I am. In my late Twenties. I got a girl pregnant. I married her, because I was told that's the right thing to do. Although I loved her with all my heart. She confessed that she had an affair and started questioning herself whether the baby was mine.

Shame on me for wanting to help people. Shame on me for for being a cop. Shame on me for owning and keeping the gun locked up in the safe. Shame on me for arguing in front of the baby. Shame on Jessica for pulling the trigger.

I felt like a stranger for the first time in fifteen years.

Now here I am. In an ambulance. I didn't need anyone to tell me Jessica, my wife was dead. I knew what death looked like. Now I was worried about that baby girl of ours. Worried 'bout that baby girl of mine.