Under His Hand

The journal of a slave

Closing Time

On June 24th my son was murdered. You knew him as B-man. He was 21 years old.

The last few weeks have been a nightmare. A hazy, twisting, overwhelming mess of pain and confusion and anger and pain and more pain. I’ve been in denial, I’ve said over and over that this can’t be real.

It is.

My son had recently (as in in the 2 weeks or so before his death) started seeing a girl. Her ex-boyfriend walked in on them sleeping in her bedroom. He then proceeded to attack my son in his sleep and kill him.

The details of my son’s death are too painful to discuss and that’s not why I’m here anyway. I came here to say goodbye. I cannot fathom a day where I will want to do this, be here. I can’t imagine a day where I care about kink or sex or can laugh again.

It’s all I can do to breathe.

You’ve been great blog readers. I didn’t want to leave it up to speculation, where I had disappeared to or why. So this is it, this is why. I’m not going to delete the blog, but I’m not going to pay the hosting charge when it comes due either. It’ll just fade away, I suppose. Seems fitting that way.

My new life is going to be trials, prosecutors, and figuring out how to live without him. Writing is what I do, though, and has always been a valuable tool for me so I might start up again somewhere else. It won’t be about sex or kink, but it will be about pain. It will be about grief and heartache and anger. It will be about family. It will be about my son.

Maybe we’ll see each other again, should our paths cross in that world. If not, take care. Thanks for the memories.