The first time I went to Disneyland, I was four. Nice age, huh?
Every single second is amazing and perfect. Nothing can go wrong.
I haven’t been there since.

When I worked for the C.B. 7th, I always wanted to go again. Probably because it was a major relief from the constant stream of violence characteristic to the C.B.7th.  The older kids there always promised that they would take me for my birthday. But from my 7-year-old initiation into C.B. 7th to my last year there, when I was 12, I never got to go.
Why? The C.B. arms convention was that day every year, and I was required to be there.
Finally, on my 12th birthday, my friends Kirsten and Megan promised me. They even got permission from our supervisor, Sherwood. Kirsten, Megan, my sort-of-boyfriend Paul and I were ready to go. Disneyland, for one day, was finally within my grasp.
Then Robert, the boss, killed my brother Brian. And life changed.
You may be asking yourself, “How?” or “Why?” Let me just say this:

It wasn’t my choice.

Why did I work-or I should say, was forced to work- at this horror town called the C.B.7th?
When I was 7, (in fact, on my 7th birthday) I witnessed a murder. For those of you who haven’t had that exquisitely beautiful experience, allow me to inform you that it changes your life. Nightmares were kid’s stuff compared to this experience.
It was, and still is, a dark time for me, and I normally don’t talk about it.
This is one of my exceptions.

                           To Be Continued
                                       The Onlooker