The echoes of a shotgun blast jerk me back to my immediate surroundings, and prompt a curse at my inablity to maintain a constant vigil in my icy perc.... My throne consists of a single board placed across two convenient limbs about twelve feet up in a denuded oak. My coat, though somewhat ragged now, is of heavy gray wool as are my leggings, which serve to soften the contrast of the snow against my black jeans, and prevent my legs from growing stiff with cold. My eyes, a chill green, peering out. She was surprisingly perceptive, and noted my fidgeting and general anxiety; I was, however at least able to obfuscate the actual reason for my jumpiness; she put it down to lingering fear after what we came to call "the attack." I, of course, knew better; I spent every waking moment fantasising about my son. I knew it wasn't normal, wasn't right, but that sure and certain knowledge just made it all the more delicious, a secret ... secret love that I knew could never be.For that, in truth, was. More

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