“No, not him.” I whisper. I wake up and quickly sit up in bed. “What the fuck was that all about?” I say to myself. “That’s what I would l...ke to know.” A voice across the room responds. “Raph!” I am and am not surprised at the same time, “What the fuck are you doing here?” “What the fuck was that dream about?” Raph deflects, avoiding the question. “Oh, Leo?”“God, you can’t keep doing this, why do you keep showing up like this?”“You know what, I’m outta here.” Raph heads for the bedroom door and. He became very shocked at my reaction. ‘Who made you the way you are?’ I asked. ‘I have never told this story before,’ he said, as he sat down, ‘but I have rehearsed this over and over in my head, at least a hundred times. I was born in 1863 to Harold Dean Hunter and Elizabeth Anne Hunter. My parents were very wealthy and we lived in a rich neighborhood in New York. A nanny raised me, my mother had a terminal illness and the doctors could find nothing to ease her pain. My father couldn’t stand. More

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