Rage, that seems to be my main problem. It underscores every aspect of my life. Rage over not knowing my origins, rage over having to hide with no answers, rage towards Hank for beating me, rage at the world for dealing me this hand. Mostly though, my rage is for myself. I don't have the quiet courage that Max has, the cool reasoning that Isabel has. And most of all, deep in my heart, rage against myself for not taking Max's hand that first day of my life, for not trusting him. I was so scared, my little secret. I followed them though, at a distance. If I'd taken his hand, or Isabel's, my last name might be Evans too. That's where it all started. I've been making decisions based on fear ever since.

I know intellectually that I need to stop doing that. But emotionally, I don't know where to begin. Maria. She's the only thing, the only person who doesn't induce fear in me. She is exactly who she appears to be, no secrets. Except mine. God, I've ruined her too. The only pure, completely open, honest thing I've ever encountered and I gave her a secret, or Liz did, that turned her life upside down. Then her honesty and kooky guilelessness and beauty made the first chip in my mortar. Maria is the first person to ever punch a hole in the walls of secure emotional barriers I'd built around myself. I made another mistake. Trust. No, it was not a mistake to trust her. It was a mistake to let her trust me, knowing that someday I would hurt her. I let her in anyway.

Too many lonely nights of isolation with no one to hold me cracked my shell. Too many lonely nights of crying myself to sleep, no one understanding my world. Not even Max and Isabel. We shared a bond of our unknown origins for sure. But they could not relate to my life, my life of loneliness and darkness, beatings, fears and trailer parks. And I could not relate to their universe of middle class, suburban bliss with nice clothes and loving parents to care for them. I was a paycheck to Hank, that's all. The State of New Mexico willingly provided him with booze money for years. I know I never saw any of it. Booze, that fueled his mean spirit and shriveled his heart. If he ever had one to begin with. Foster boy, Mickey, Asshole, Pain in the Ass. These were his monikers for me as I was growing up. Mickey was the one heard least often and usually only on the rare occasion that we had company. I was free of him now, at least, having been emancipated and getting my own apartment with the help of Mr. Evans.

I still don't know why he helped me. Why is it so hard for me to believe there is goodness in the world? The evidence is all around me. The Evans', sweet Maria, Liz's devotion to Max, Alex's devotion to Isabel. And now, lo' and behold, even the sheriff, someone I would never have believed could be on our side. But that was none of my doing. That was Max, again. Max has this innate sense of right and wrong, justice and trust, allowing him to have a soul and a control that allowed him to heal. He healed the sheriff's son of a fatal gunshot wound, thereby securing the devotion of someone once thought our worst enemy. He was tied to us now as surely as Liz was, owing a life to Maxwell Evans. I envy him his ability to engender that devotion, to risk his heart and his very existence to help others. I do not possess this quality. I never will. I can't take the risk, even if I had the ability, which I don't. I used to be jealous. Liz loved him and I wanted someone to love me. I read Liz's journal; jealousy oozing from my very being at the words that Max inspired her to immortalize on paper.

Maria. She blew into my life like a gentle, cool breeze, with the finesse of a hurricane, but a cool breeze nonetheless. She put out the fires of jealousy. Jealousy, an emotion born of fear and rage. These emotions I know too well. It know them intimately, rage and fear in all their forms; jealousy, callousness, fear, belligerence, arrogance, false bravado, loneliness. These were the only emotions I knew before Maria. She taught me some new ones. Damn her and bless her. She taught me patience, tolerance, amusement, lust, happiness and love. Love? Where did that come from? No. I still can't allow that. But she did turn my jealousy to envy without rancor, just envy with acceptance. She turned my callousness into moments of tact, my belligerence into quiet retrospection and my false bravado into a farce.

Sometimes I barely recognize myself when I'm with her. She taught me how to laugh, to relax from time to time. She taught me that I am capable of being something other than a callous bastard with a big mouth and a mission. She's forgiven me more mistakes of bad form than I care to contemplate. When she is near me, my lips can make that weird expression called a smile, and I can find my heretofore-unknown sense of humor. The biggest miracle, I have moments of peace, punctuated with moments of mad lust and longing that leave me bewildered and gasping for breath and trying to find my stoic equilibrium.