The Good Doctor

I suppose I should feel badly about what I’ve done: Repentant, contrite, and perhaps even a bit sorry.

But I won’t.

I imagine I should beg forgiveness, seek absolution, penance, cast myself at the mercy of the court.

But I don’t.

Then there’s that bit about why I am this way: “Troubled”, some would say. “Damaged”, perhaps others might posit. “Deluded” from some corners.

But I’m not.

I am the darkest corner of one’s soul, shadowy thoughts that tumble through the mind like rocks in a polisher.

Outwardly lustrous, exquisite.

But inside?

All crust and grit.

In other words:



Happy Birthday, Sarah!

This is a preview of The Good Doctor