Second Time Through Book IIChapter 46 Adriana s Shares
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Equal Shares Ch. 01 free porn video
Preface and Dedication
This story could not have happened without the initial encouragement of Strickland83, who read a post I made on Nick Scipio’s forum and urged me to consider writing.
Of course, that leads me to thank Nick, and also Frank Downey. Their Summer Camp and Dance of a Lifetime books, respectively, were truly inspirational. Cheers, guys.
Other authors who contributed, unknowingly, include everyone that I read between the ages of around 8 (When I discovered Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons in a local library), to today. To all of them, thank you so very much.
My Primary Editor, Bob Hebert, has been simply wonderful. The reality team have put in a lot of work in the readthroughs. Without these people the story would have been greatly reduced by the simply huge number of errors that they caught, in terms of grammar, sense and direction. Any errors that remain are, of course, my responsibility.
Finally, this is dedicated to my darling wife, Karen. I love you so very much.
Equal Shares came about as a result of a challenge set to me by Strickland83. It was worded as encouragement, but a challenge it was.
He read a post on Nick Scipio’s forum that I made. In it, I poured my heart out about the three occasions in which I’d fallen hopelessly in love with a fictional character. One was when I was only 13, the other two were Frank Downey’s Sophia and Nick’s own Gina. It was an emotional vent, in which I praised them for their ability to make a 50 year old man break down in tears over pain occurring to a character that was, in the end, no more than words on paper (or a screen).
He said, in part:
>, I want to see others share their talents. Don’t beg off by saying
>, that your spelling or grammar are not good. That’s what editors do
>, for you.
>, Give it a try. Find an idea that you can be passionate about and
>, work from there. Develop the story in your mind and then write
>, about it. Give it a try.
>, You have been touched by other stories. Now go out and touch
>, others.
So, I thought about it. I dismissed the idea, of course, as I hadn’t tried to write fiction since I was a schoolboy. But there remained this thing…
Then, I had an idea. I had a tale to tell. I wanted to tell a story, an erotic story, that didn’t feature kids of school or university age, that wasn’t a coming of age story, which actually featured people who were ‘grown up’. It would be a slow story, about a man who began as emotionally dead, but who had the support of just a few people who could help him, just enough support. It would also tell the story of those around him.
This tale is very definitely not autobiographical, but there is some of me in Stan. In some facets, quite a lot, actually. In the same way, some of the characters have real-life counterparts for some of their personalities. Anne is heavily based on the smartest person I have ever known, who sadly died of cancer a couple of years ago. Elizabeth is an amalgam of three people. There is, I’m afraid, no real life analogue to Denise.
Stan’s devotion to Caron is heavily modelled on my own love, of course. Like everything else, sweetheart, I offer this to you.
Steveh11, 12th May, 2006
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Stan woke up, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. It was a defensive reflex, looking at the empty pillow next to him would bring tears to his eyes.
It was his 42nd birthday, and he was alone… again… still.
The ceiling didn’t really speak to him, yet he could still hear his wife’s lilting voice: ‘Time to get up, Stan. You have to go to work.’
Caron. He still loved her. He still thought of her, every day, many times a day. The deep depression that he felt was his only protection from his memories of her.
The car had swerved to avoid a young girl, who was running across the road to her mother without looking, and it had caught Caron a glancing blow. It wouldn’t have been too serious, but when Caron fell she’d struck her head on the raised ironwork of a manhole cover.
And that was that.
Stan had been visited at work. When the policewoman said, ‘Please sit down, Mr. Hinch, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ he already knew that Caron was dead. It was the compassion in her eyes, the sadness in the set of her face, the whole attitude of the young policewoman’s body that told him.
He didn’t break down immediately. Somehow he made the arrangements, got to the funeral, he was even able to get to the part where he was supposed to speak… and couldn’t. He couldn’t see anyone through the tears, he couldn’t speak through the boulder lodged in his throat. Someone – he still didn’t know who, probably Bob, his boss – got him down from the dais. Someone else, Elizabeth he thought, had comforted him.
Tomorrow it would be six months. Just as he’d managed to survive yesterday, in a bubble where no one could touch him, and where he didn’t make any real contact with anyone else, he still had to get through today.
Elizabeth, his assistant, would look with compassion in her eyes at him from across the desks they shared, and he would, once again, refuse to engage her beyond superficialities. Bob, his manager, would inquire about some task he’d been assigned, and Stan would respond with the minimum effort required. Stan expected there’d be the usual brushfires that always came up, but he couldn’t make himself care about anything any more.
He knew, intellectually, that this was bad, he knew he should try to break out of this. But he was afraid, afraid of the hurt coming back to overwhelm him. He’d spent just one night staring at the bottle of a variety of pills he’d collected from various stores. He got rid of the bottle the next morning, vowing not to bring the temptation back.
The apathy he’d developed had become his armour, his ability to function was only viable because he refused to let life reach out to touch him any more.
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