I was honing up on Genge's Forensic Casebook today. I think I have almost every book on real crime ever written. I've always been facinated with crime and murder, since before I lost all my memories, it was the one facination I was able to carry into adulthood. Perhaps that's why I cling to it, always eager to learn more, the master of getting inside others heads. It must remind me of when I was happy. I can't remember any of my childhood, but I must have been happy, and studying crime allows me to reflect on that...
Why couldn't I have been normal?
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