To look at him, you would never guess his true nature. His face is smooth, freckled. His eyes are pale blue with long, dark lashes that any woman would envy. His pale blonde hair has bangs that hang over his left brow, which he continually sweeps back with his left hand. He is slight of build, but wiry, strong. Shingling rooftops year-round has resulted in an almost unnatural glow to his naturally fair skin, which never burns but often freckles and always appears dark bronze. His nose is aquiline, almost hawkish, but it suits him. Many describe his features as innocent; others claim he has an old soul. When he chances a look at you, you can’t help but stare into his eyes. They look pained, anguished, pleading, as if he was begging for someone to save him. But when I looked at him, I saw him for who he is. I couldn’t help it. I knew him. I had lived with him for more than eighteen years, and his secrets are my secrets. But the secrets that caused me great shame, did not cause those same feelings in him. He is incapable of shame. He is incapable of the pain or anguish you often read in his eyes. He is my son, and he is incapable of feeling remorse for the crime he committed just two days ago. The crime I didn’t stop but could have if I didn’t love him so damn much. You see, just two days ago, my eighteen-year-old son held a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.