There was something strange about the house where I grew up. There were shadows in the corners and whispers on the stairs and time was as irrelevant as honesty. Though how I knew that I couldn't say.

There was a war going on in our house, a silent war that sounded no guns, and the bodies that fell were only wishes that died and the bullets were only words and the blood that spilled was always called pride.

Though I'd never been to school -- and I was seven years old and it was high time I was in school -- it seemed I knew all about the Civil War. Around me the Civil War was still being waged, and...