My middle name should have been Phoebe, after my grandmother, who died the day before I was born. But thanks to the fifth my dad snuck into the delivery room, it was duly recorded as Phobe.

Edward Phobe.

He who is afraid of Edwards.

And, as an Edward myself, it sort of stood to reason that I’d be terrified of…well, myself.

So wouldn’t you know it, I was. But not for the reason you might expect. I’m terrified of myself because I might kill again.

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