The darkness within

Nearly four years ago, I wrote a story. Easily the darkest piece of fiction - and it really is fiction, no part of it has any real life analogue - I've ever written. It's said, though, that all fiction is autobiography, to some extent, and I think something that's happened this afternoon bears that out in this instance. I was on a bus, leaving the bus station in our local town centre, when I spotted a boy. A boy on his own, despite not being very old - perhaps 11, 12 at the most - who looked as though he really ought to have been in school, given the time of day. As the bus carried on its way, the boy was quickly out of sight, but certainly not out of mind. I spent the next few minutes lost in rather lurid fantasies of what I could do with such a boy - or, maybe more significantly, what I could do to him. I like to tell myself that I'd never coerce anyone sexually, but there are times when I doubt whether, if a genuine opportunity arose, I'd really be able to resist temptation. I can hope, of course, but I'd be blatantly lying if I said I could guarantee it. And that knowledge, the implacable knowledge of the dark places inside me, is why I find it so hard to live with myself, so much of the time.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B