We sit down, and he starts right in. He tells me it was a mistake doing what he had done. It was a onetime thing, that he would never hurt me in such ...way. All he does is sit at home and cry. Of course, I know better. It takes a lot out of me not to call him out on it. I just let him rattle on, filling me with more lies. When he thinks I have forgiven him, he begins to kiss me. His lips are urgent, full of need, but done with no real romance. I feel nothing. It doesn’t stop me, though. I keep. No 27 just sat there; its paint peeling and the gardengradually becoming more and more overgrown. And so it has stood to thisvery day.Such is the background to my story. My name is Sam Jackson and I am ajournalist on the Courier - our local newspaper. One morning my Editorcalled me into his office. As I entered I saw he had two young visitorswith him. These were introduced to me as Sarah Wainwright and Paul Hughesand they were students studying History at our local university. MyEditor. More

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