My name is Caitlyn Carson, but you can call me Cate or CC.

This is mainly about me. I’m thirteen years old and not especially remarkable, which, I know, is not the most compelling reason to read on. But it’s not only about me. I have parents that play significant roles in this story. My father is Michael Carson and he loves me. My mother is Lois Houseman and she loves me. They don’t love each other. I suppose they must have at some stage, but if so, no one talks about it. Now they just nod or exchange neutral words, and I think if it wasn’t for my presence (and I am always there when they are together) they would make judgements about the other’s character and possibly resurrect old wounds or grievances. Worlds of pain lurk there. Keeping all that in check is tiring. Sometimes I feel resentful that I was given the role when no one asked me if I wanted it. Most times I just feel tired.

I love my parents, so that’s good.

But sometimes I think love isn’t enough. Even though I’m only thirteen years old, which, let’s be honest, does not add up to an impressive lifespan, I’ve learned that love isn’t necessarily what it says on the pack. I know it can inject pain, destroy lives, twist people into shapes that quickly turn monstrous. In some ways we’d be better off without it.

I suppose that’s what this story is about. Love, pain and the mysteries that are people.

It’s also about madness and why we need it.