Author's Note: This is another one of those short stories that "make you think" and give you an interesting view on things. On relationships. On Johnny. Just read, okay? I'll even give you a Brainfreezy. I swear it. Email me at [email protected] and I'll send you a Brainfreezy of your flavor choosing. Or at your request I'll send a random flavor.

Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing; not Jhonen, not Johnny, not anybody. Not even Slave Labor graphics. But someday, when I dominate the world, all will be mine. Jhonen will be my monkey slave. I actually do own my fingers though, the ones used to type this crap. Heh. I own them, you don't. (victory dance happening!)

SECRET

Hello.

I am Johnny Colt. But I like to be referred to as just Johnny or maybe even Nny, if I like you enough.

You see, my life is full of secrets. Everything always has to be kept secret. My murders are secret. My voices are secret. The fact that I've been to both Heaven and Hell, met God and Satan is secret. I'm just secretive.

But there is one thing I haven't told anybody. I've kept silent about it, because I am ashamed. I was stupid and naïve and depressed. I'm still depressed, but I'd like to think I've gained more knowledge and insight and common sense since my teenage years.

I am twenty-three now. I'm not a teenager, I am an adult. But a younger adult; therefore, I have not experienced as much as, say, George Bush. He's older than me; much older. He's been through more, but not exactly the same things I have.

I was 17 years old. I met a girl. I thought I loved her. I really did; the thought of sex and touching had always made me sick. I'd never masturbated before. I'd been a virgin in every way. Never been kissed, even. I loved her for HER, not her body.

But that all changed. We went out together for months, many months. I was content with our relationship the way it was. We bonded, joked, shared similar views of the world. Everyone seemed to hate us for our clothing, but we had each other, and that's what counted.

And then she began to really want physical contact. I was nervous and embarrassed and unsure. I didn't. I didn't want to lose ANYTHING; I wanted to DIE a virgin. But she persisted, and I thought I loved her. So I did it. I had sex with her.

It was an exciting experience. But messy, empty and loveless. I didn't feel the love; only an animalistic drive from within; no loving or caring. And when it was over, I felt even emptier inside. I was scared she'd blow me off for another guy after she'd had her way with me.

To my delight, she did not. She still loved me. I still loved her. She later told me that she was sorry she made me have sex with her. She'd just been way too impatient and she was sincerely sorry, and that if I never wanted to have sex with her again, I didn't have to. She'd be mine forever anyway.

She promised. Swore on it. And she kind of did keep her promise.

Nine months later, something happened. It was most certainly not a miracle at the time. No miracles, no happiness, nothing. A bunch of frustration, pain and misery.

My child was born.

And in the process of a new life being brought into this sadistic world, a life was taken. My happiness, my love and my soulmate died giving birth. Her frail, thin body could not handle it. Her last words were these:

"I love you always and forever, Johnny C. I'll always be with you..."

I cried the hardest I'd ever cried in my life. I held my baby in my arms, cradled it lovingly and carefully, and cried. The baby was confused, but did not cry. It was strangely calm. I looked into its eyes and saw that it cared. It cared about me, and loved me, and wanted me to raise it, to teach it.

Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to give this small child my world. More than my world; anything it wanted. Anything its tiny eye desired.

But I didn't know HOW.

I couldn't afford a baby, much less myself.

I did the only thing I could: I gave it up for adoption. I cried harder and longer, giving up that bundle of loving, warm happiness. I missed that feeling of being cared about.

And I turned bitter. I began murdering. But nobody caught me...

I never get caught.

But, to my delight, I did find out where my child went. And now I visit quite often, sometimes without him knowing.

I tell him stories, watch him grow, read his stories and look at his art. He is six years old now.

He doesn't know I'm his father. He doesn't know his mother is dead. To him, I'm a mere visitor. A weirdo, maybe.

But I know. I know, because I see myself in him. The scared, lost, lonely little artistic boy. But I'm always here for him. Always.

In fact, he happens to live right next door.

His parents call him Todd.