THE FAMILY THAT LIES TOGETHER by LB Sobolik

[LBS]

This is the first Chapter of my psychological thriller featuring the confession of a career politician who has chosen to detail the night she evolved from the weakest in her morally corrupt, wealthy family to the strongest.

From the Office of Sen. Annalisa M. Blackburn-Moore

Congratulations.

And, I suppose, thank you.

I’m not exactly sure why I am thanking you. I know that I should- that reading my story is an investment of your time and, after all, what is more precious than our time?

I have learned that the hard way, but really, whoever learns when things are easy?
Anyways, considering that sharing my story with you essentially clinches my own downfall all while launching your career into journalistic stardom…

Let’s just say I’m much more comfortable offering you a congratulations over a “thanks.”

Because one of two things are about to happen:

The first obvious choice being that you may delete this story. Which is completely possible, you could be an idiot. From your recent publications I’ve gathered some level of intelligence, some turns of phrase and introspection that have- I’ll admit it- vaguely impressed me. But obviously you are aware we have never met, so really, I have no idea. Your intelligence could be limited to your ability to piece together clever phrases and descriptions- just as mine is relatively restricted to my ability to say what I know others want to hear, to make promises I have no idea or intent in keeping, and to maintain appearances no matter the cost.

You could also delete this because you simply can’t believe that, I, Senator Annalisa Blackburn-Moore would ever reach out to you.

That I, the pin-up and now poster-woman for the extremist political minority currently running our government (Oh, I know what my fans and supporters are, of course I do- I couldn’t manipulate them if I didn’t know exactly how to drive them into their frenzies) is directly contacting you when dozens of journalists from around the globe have strived and failed to bring me to my knees.

It’s been fun really, watching these journalist hacks hunt down and shell out every half-baked and ill-conceived piece of gossip they could get their hands on, and three decades of such debacles have made me quite the professional at disputing such idiotic claims. (A few I’ve even started myself, spread through back channels of course. After all, it’s always good to have your name being whispered about- to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. It’s like they say, there’s no such thing as bad press…but really, it’s so much more fun to dispute such ridiculous stories when you know you’ve started them yourself.)

So, needless to say, I understand your hesitancy; that such a person as I would ever reach out directly to you- with your modest degree and even more modest living situation (of course I know all about you, even the simplest intern can run a background check) is unbelievable.

But even with your professional media outlet backing it’s hard to imagine anyone would believe such a fallacious…such an unbelievable story…

A story that not only details a crime of law but of family and of blood, and one that implicates more than just myself.

That would be insane, right?

Ha.

Insanity I know, insanity I understand- it’s basically my job these days.

So let me say with perfect understanding that you printing this would definitely be the perfect punctuation mark to my manic life.

Of course, It would be ironic if you took this path- if you simply didn’t believe me and deleted all of this; if after all these years of my fighting the published falsehoods and after the half-dozen victories I’ve collected in courts against your prized media entities over their slander and libel…it all meant that when I finally came forward with my true crime, the real guilt that weighs down my heart and soul, that it wouldn’t be printed out of fear of it not being true.

Perhaps that would be a case of ultimate justice, but then those I’ve harmed wouldn’t receive their justice, would they?

So, I will hold out hope that you are as intelligent as I have taken you for, and that you will end up choosing the second option. That you do find a way to print this. That you share it with the world, and everyone learns that all that was whispered in the shadows about me…all that was wondered in fear…that all of it was true.

Yes. I am not the perfect paragon I pretend to be.

Obviously.

Every saint has a past after all- and those of us working so hard to prove our goodness are almost always carrying the heaviest sins.

What?

You think your heroes don’t have a closet of skeletons?

A backyard of bones?

Grow up.

So, I suppose my thanks truly is justified. Justified and necessary. I really should be thanking you- thanking everyone and everything that hasn’t pulled me down and buried me for what I’ve done already.

I should probably thank this very page I’m writing on for not bursting into flames or spitting in my face as I sit and smear its innocence, destroy its state of tabula rasa with my filth.

But I can’t let the truth be buried any longer.

Why?

Christ.

I don’t know.

Guilt, I guess.

I’m sure there’s more to it, but honestly, I barely have the time to pen this so let’s just examine my motives later. Because I won’t be bogged down now by such pedantically moronic concerns- I couldn’t care less about why I am doing this; I just want it done.

Besides, you won’t get the chance to ask me so let’s just leave it at that.

You might think this is cowardly, and of course I realize that. But in many ways, I have played the coward (it’s a ridiculously successful strategy if you ever want to try it) and from where I stand what I’m doing is quite the contrary. In fact, I would say I’m being rather brave.

Oh? You don’t agree?

Well, consider where I’m coming from. I’m writing this confession to you, fully understanding that I’m ruining lives and reputations- my own included-

But still, I do it.

If that doesn’t make a person brave- what does?

I suppose I should also make it clear that I do know I regret these events.

I am sorry.

But to be clear, I’m sorry that what happened, had to happen.

That it came to be.

Make no mistake, I stand by my actions.

This isn’t a sorry similar to a, “I was careless and spilled my chianti on your designer dress.”

It’s also not an, “I’m sorry for promising to help veterans with their healthcare options, but it ended up being against my interests.”
No. This sorry is more like…. more like having to put down your champion jumper because she’s broken her leg.

It’s tragic. She lies there, not knowing what’s about to happen- only confused and in pain.

But you know what has to happen next. You know that there is no other option, that there is only one road to take and that this road ends with you staring down at the dead body of the horse you once loved.

You hate that you have to walk this road, but you walk it, nonetheless.

Because you must

Because there is no other road.

And what are you going to do?

Sit down and cry?

Again, I know your generation is emotional but come on-

Grow up.

That would be pointless.

No, not only pointless.

Weak.

And I gave up being weak over thirty years ago.

Are you surprised I’m sorry?

Of course, I am, no one would wish for something like this to happen.

No one wants to be responsible for the death of a family member.

And in fact, I’m sorry for many things.

I’m sorry I didn’t see what was happening.

I’m sorry I didn’t put the pieces together until it was too late-until everything was as good as done and I was trapped.

Well…I felt trapped.

But I guess it’s the same- being trapped and feeling trapped.

Or is it not? Is that what got me into this in the first place? Thinking that reality and threats were the same?

Even writing this now I realize of course feeling trapped and being trapped aren’t the same. I was an idiot then and revisiting these memories must be making me more of an idiot now.

What I do know is that I didn’t see it coming. I should have, but I didn’t. But back then I was never much good at seeing things. I’ve gotten better. This night changed me in that way.

And as for the congratulations?

Well, let’s just say I know you’ve had it out for me for a while. I’ve seen you, heard about you- digging through my past to find some dirty secret you can dredge up and fling at my face. Never doing so in the spotlight, or even in the daylight for that matter; I know you’re dying to find out what evil I’ve committed but know you haven’t the clout or capability of resurfacing all that on your own.

You’ve failed so many times, just like your colleagues, and I’ve smiled at every one of these pathetic attempts by all your kind because only I know where my secrets are buried.

And trust me, you’d never find them without my help.

So here, let me show you where to dig.

In fact, I’ve done the digging myself- like the archeologist of my own crimes I have unearthed, swept, examined, and catalogued them all for your enjoyment.

Please, enjoy this tour of mine and my family’s crimes. Be sure not to touch and save all questions for the end.

And maybe from my story you, and all your plebeian kind, will learn something about getting what is deserved.

I supposed I should get on with this, I feel I am beginning to ramble.

But one last thing, let me offer my word, let me make it clear, absolutely clear, that this story is completely true. Terrible and true.

That this is how I remember that night exactly. This night is so often the subject of my dreams, a more dramatic person might say I am haunted by it.

I would be lying if I said I still didn’t wake some mornings in horror; shocked I had a hand in it, that I was even there.

So, I am not bragging when I tell you this account is quite detailed and precise- I am stating a fact. However, I will keep this story from my perspective throughout the telling, so you will never be tempted to forget that this is only my side- what I saw and experienced.

Not that anyone can refute what I’ve said at this point, but so it goes.

And as for proof, I supposed I will have to ask for your patience.

Patience, patience, patience.

So irritating, being told to be patient- isn’t it?

I had to learn to be patient, and it was a lesson worth learning.

Then again… I of all people understand the frustration of practicing patience with no promise of reward.

So, I will make you a promise. I guarantee, I swear on everything I am and hold dear that by the end of this story you will know where the proof of my story lies. I am sure that, armed with this story and as long as you publish it for the world to see, no criminal official (even those crooked enough to be under my employ) will be able to stop you from retrieving it.

In fact, if you intend to go after this proof, I highly recommend you spread this story as wide and far as you can beforehand. You wouldn’t want to try and go this alone- trust me.

Many, many people have had their fortunes made or fattened by mine and my family’s string pulling. Many, many powerful people- who wouldn’t want me to fall.

They wouldn’t want one of their greatest benefactors and power players to open this door into the sickly, nefarious world we manage just out of yours, and the publics’, reach.

And I wouldn’t want you to disappear.

(Not because I care about you of course, but because then all this effort of mine would be wasted…and I do so very much want this story out of my head…out of my heart…)

But that’s enough of that for now. Story time.

In fact, if you like, if you would rather just not be patient you can flip to the end and find the answer right now. Find where your proof lies.

It will make the story less believable if you jump ahead, probably less interesting too but go ahead if you must.

…I don’t think you will.

After all, my tale isn’t long; it only spans one single evening…

The last time my family, The Blackburn Family, would all be alive and well together under one roof.

So, to summarize, do what you will with this story; print it and pursue the truth or delete it and pretend you never saw it.

At least I will have tried… and isn’t that the best any of us can do?

Oh, and one last thing of course…

Just in case you are tempted to sympathize with this younger, more innocent, more stupid version of myself…

Remember-

I don’t want, or need, your forgiveness.

That isn’t what my story is about.

So.

To be absolutely, perfectly crystal clear…

Do.

Not.

Forgive me.