”She stared at me for a moment, “You and those damned journals! Maybe it would be better if they never existed.”“Maybe. But we are where we ar.... They exist. And I need to keep writing. I am reasonably certain it’s the only thing that’s kept me sane since I was fourteen. I’m sorry, but I never intended to hurt you.”“Bethany read those! And others! I can’t believe you, Steve! You promised!”“I’m sorry. I can’t undo it now.”“Who’s read that?”And the question that I couldn’t answer without revealing. He too is looking forward to go hunting. Isn't the lake big enough for two groups?" she said under her breath."I could ask them to ban your husband and his group from being here. This is so bad." I said. She had a worried look on her face. She looked around again. "Is there anything I could do?" she said. "Wait! Are you still going." I said. She looked right at me and nodded her head "Yes!" "At home, do you leave the door open for your husband? When your peeing. I thought so. Bet he never. Mothers hand slipped between his thighs and she took hold of his testes and twisted, I could see her hand moving in an in and out movement, she was obviously screwing with his genitals, 'Do you love me', she hissed, 'tell me', she continued as my poor brother squirmed against the wall.Then she withdrew her hand and slapped him hard across his buttocks, 'You fucking dirty little fucker', she hissed as she brought her hand to bear on his cheeks, now turning a flaming red.The air was filled with. 1 hons degree in fine art / graphic design, and working in my first job as a 'Trainee Commercial Artist' (read messenger boy / gopher) in a busy and apparently quite trendy graphic design studio in Oxford street London. Top three floors. Over a shoe shop. I won't name it because A) they don't deserve a name check, B) they probably don't exist anymore, and C) I nicked a whole bunch of really expensive graphic design materials from them during my six month tenure. My pay was £8.57 a week. It was.