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For Kelto, the floodgates of his mind were open. ''My mother was a widow. The experience broke her heart. I know that she loved me, but Jenna was her chosen, the very reason she lived. She died shortly after that, and I was shuttled off to an orphanage." |
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I'll admit to having been around for a while and over the years having observed a good many men describing and living through all kinds of personal hell. It is unusual for a man to relive a traumatic experience of the nature and magnitude that Kelto had just described without some sort of inadvertent demonstration of the fires that kindle that emotion. Yet there he sat, describing an atrocity of shocking proportions, and his face, his manner, his speech pattern were all devoid of passion. I kept thinking that what he was telling me was unreal, nothing more than a horror story. There would have been more. It was, after all, the cathartic ramblings of a tortured soul. |
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I started to ask him a question, and he again held up his hand in that halting gesture. |
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"When I was fifteen, I ran away from the orphanage. The nightmares were unbearable. I couldn't make it through the night without reliving those few terrifying minutes and suffering through the agonizing days that followed. I kept seeing it over |
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