I guess, dear reader, that I should just come out and say what it is I'm trying to say with this little project, then we can get down to explaining how it is we got from Point A to Point B... well... almost to point B. Almost. See, I'm not who you think I am. Sure the person you see at work or at shows or on the street is every bit the person who's actions have defined whatever our relationship is, but I am not Peter Ashworth. I never have been. Unfortunately, what my real name is I can't say at this time. See, there's this Point B thing looming on the horizon... and by "looming" I mean "waiting to destroy me"... the real me... whomever that may be. And, although every moment of my life is drawing me toward that conclusion, if you know anything about me, you know my brain is running rampant with schemes on how to come out on top of this situation. Also if you know anything about me, you know you're just going to have to trust that I can't risk exposing how close I am to seeing my plans come to pass.
Now, I may not be able to tell you my real name, but I can tell you this; after the death of my father... my real father... I spent a few years in various foster homes. For the most part, this wasn't as bad as a lot of the stories make them out to be. A lot of the places I stayed were run by loving, caring people who just feel compelled to do something to quiet that voice in their head. Which, believe me, I understand all too well. And though the people running the homes were often kind hearted, what I brought into their homes was far from the same. I was a monster, to say the least. I was violent, angry, aggressive, argumentative, and scheming... but I was also intelligent, calculating, imaginative and tenacious. If there was something I wanted, you can believe I was planning ways to get it. Intricate ways. For instance, If I wanted a cookie from the pantry but was unable to reach where they were, I may, say, take the ex-lax from the bathroom, put some in the cats water dish, wait until one of the older children was sent to the pantry with the step ladder to remove the kitty litter from the top shelf, wait until he'd carried the bag out of sight and then used the ladder myself to not only win my prize, but, in all likelihood, place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the older child who was only doing as he was asked. Sorry Scotty :) Needless to say, my caregivers and I were often at odds... Scotty and I didn't get along too well either.