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Description
Nothing matters more to me than my children.

It must be about five A.M this frosty winter morning. We've spent the night in a dumpster again. We were fortunate enough to find an abandoned mattress to stuff haphazardly into the empty metal carcass before attempting to sleep on it's slimy and foul-smelling floor... and when we all huddled closely, sharing warmth and comfort in our steady breathing... we manage to survive and even get a reasonable amount of sleep for a wanted man and two abused children.

I'd rather have my eyes gutted from my skull and my organs strewn into flame in a violent act of hatred and insanity than watch any harm come to my children. And this... uncertainty that follows me around like a starving dog, feeding off of my sleep and sanity can only provoke terror in my entire being... not knowing if I can properly feed my children... if we'll have an adequite place to sleep tonight... if they'll live through this with enough unscarred flesh and memory to live normal and happy lives.

Sometimes I think it would be better for them if I was dead. If I was shot shamelessly on the run or if they put me to an unfair trial and locked me in a cold jail or twisted asylum. But they have no relatives that know of their birth or would pass a glance, and if I was to truly be locked either behind padded walls or iron bars or dirt and wood; I know Katherene would remember me, Kathleen probably wouldn't, she's simply too young to ever be able to really recall me. Katherene would always be asking for me when she was placed in the care of a stranger or held in an orphanage. And no matter what they would tell her if would break her fragile little heart.

Even if their mother was alive... I would never let her touch them again. Not after what she did. Even when she was ill...I always kept my wedding ring on, a simple silver band wrapped around my bony finger; always catching the light. I knew she was my wife and I had chosen her, our vows were bound and the papers were signed and even in her death I know her insanity was my fault. But that day I watched as the wife I no longer knew lay amongst a bed of flowers, her hands crossed in front of her as if she still thinks I'm in her embrace. I took off my wedding ring, and in an act of grief and guilt, and vile relinquent, I threw it into her open grave. Our marriage had died long before she did and I had finally fallen out of love with her.

I still cannot forgive her.

Mon petit chou chous are asleep in my lap as I write this. Katherene's little perfect body resting on mine, her blonde head pressed into my ribs, and Kathleen sleeping in her fertile-curled up position within her sister's arms... the way she always has since that night.

Sometimes I worry she might never fully recover... the doctor said violent traumas early in life can give a child brain damage or development issues. He then proceeded to call the police and tell them in a hushed tone that I was in his office and he had locked the windows and doors.

The sun is beginning to peak over the furthest reach of the cityscape now... we need to begin moving soon... or we might be caught when the unknowing garbagemen arrive to haul the garbage off to a distant land of filth. If anyone finds this with my old body, know this;

My name is Aundre David Portier.
Frenchman, 29 years old.

My two daughters (conceived with Lillibelle Larosa Narmon, deceased) are:

Katherene Elle Portier
A little five year old girl. My beloved eldest. She likes bright colors, sweets, and the color blue.
and:
Kathleen Belle Portier
My youngest beauty of merley one year. She dislikes loud noises and likes to listen to the softer musics. She has shown a young interest in dark colors.

let them express themselves as they desire. Love them. Like I have. Love them like their mother never would.

My last will and testiment is to be that these girls take everything I own. And that they are placed under the best care possible.

Signed:
Aundre David Portier

Description
Nothing matters more to me than my children.

It must be about five A.M this frosty winter morning. We've spent the night in a dumpster again. We were fortunate enough to find an abandoned mattress to stuff haphazardly into the empty metal carcass before attempting to sleep on it's slimy and foul-smelling floor... and when we all huddled closely, sharing warmth and comfort in our steady breathing... we manage to survive and even get a reasonable amount of sleep for a wanted man and two abused children.

I'd rather have my eyes gutted from my skull and my organs strewn into flame in a violent act of hatred and insanity than watch any harm come to my children. And this... uncertainty that follows me around like a starving dog, feeding off of my sleep and sanity can only provoke terror in my entire being... not knowing if I can properly feed my children... if we'll have an adequite place to sleep tonight... if they'll live through this with enough unscarred flesh and memory to live normal and happy lives.

Sometimes I think it would be better for them if I was dead. If I was shot shamelessly on the run or if they put me to an unfair trial and locked me in a cold jail or twisted asylum. But they have no relatives that know of their birth or would pass a glance, and if I was to truly be locked either behind padded walls or iron bars or dirt and wood; I know Katherene would remember me, Kathleen probably wouldn't, she's simply too young to ever be able to really recall me. Katherene would always be asking for me when she was placed in the care of a stranger or held in an orphanage. And no matter what they would tell her if would break her fragile little heart.

Even if their mother was alive... I would never let her touch them again. Not after what she did. Even when she was ill...I always kept my wedding ring on, a simple silver band wrapped around my bony finger; always catching the light. I knew she was my wife and I had chosen her, our vows were bound and the papers were signed and even in her death I know her insanity was my fault. But that day I watched as the wife I no longer knew lay amongst a bed of flowers, her hands crossed in front of her as if she still thinks I'm in her embrace. I took off my wedding ring, and in an act of grief and guilt, and vile relinquent, I threw it into her open grave. Our marriage had died long before she did and I had finally fallen out of love with her.

I still cannot forgive her.

Mon petit chou chous are asleep in my lap as I write this. Katherene's little perfect body resting on mine, her blonde head pressed into my ribs, and Kathleen sleeping in her fertile-curled up position within her sister's arms... the way she always has since that night.

Sometimes I worry she might never fully recover... the doctor said violent traumas early in life can give a child brain damage or development issues. He then proceeded to call the police and tell them in a hushed tone that I was in his office and he had locked the windows and doors.

The sun is beginning to peak over the furthest reach of the cityscape now... we need to begin moving soon... or we might be caught when the unknowing garbagemen arrive to haul the garbage off to a distant land of filth. If anyone finds this with my old body, know this;

My name is Aundre David Portier.
Frenchman, 29 years old.

My two daughters (conceived with Lillibelle Larosa Narmon, deceased) are:

Katherene Elle Portier
A little five year old girl. My beloved eldest. She likes bright colors, sweets, and the color blue.
and:
Kathleen Belle Portier
My youngest beauty of merley one year. She dislikes loud noises and likes to listen to the softer musics. She has shown a young interest in dark colors.

let them express themselves as they desire. Love them. Like I have. Love them like their mother never would.

My last will and testiment is to be that these girls take everything I own. And that they are placed under the best care possible.

Signed:
Aundre David Portier