1869
It was a Tuesday, late in the year, when it was announced to me that I had a visitor. There was no time for me to fluster about it, but I could feel my heartbeat up in my throat and a slow crawl of nervous tension along my chest and face. I think my body knew it would be news. My skin and nerves were preparing me for this.
I was a bad lover of people to be sure. I was terrible at being a person. But let it stand that I did love them – the boy and his mother – however poorly, however ineptly. Things had not gone well for me in any corner of my life. And now I was scared and pressed my face into my fresh sheets and breathed in the starch to comfort myself. I did not want a visitor, and I did not wish to be disturbed at all. I scratched my cheek until it bled, a thin mess on my bedding
