The Story of John S. Hudson

I believe we each harbor truths about our person too explicit to be shed upon the public ear.  Fantastic and horrific tales of tumultuous times we all undergo at some point in life.  I ask of you this: what do we do with these tales?  Most, I believe, drown out the pain or shock of the situation in whatever pool of substance they can, be it alcohol, a drug, or forced forgetfulness.  Alcohol is my crutch, and in the toughest of times, I have found the truth at the bottom of the bottle.  He who placed it there, I am in debt to.
Is pain part of life?  If it is supposed to be there, where did it come from?  The human existence is full of wonder and amazement, but also replete with darkness.  I often wonder in thought about what place my past doings have in a broader picture.  At that moment in time, why did I take a course of action which led to a future of regret?  The better part of a year was spent sorting out what happened; details I will not go into here.  The inner debate was thought to be over, and a conclusion of utter and everlasting guilt had set in.  Then I came into light of another such tale, similar to my own in depth and severity.  And equally disturbing.
While I do not ask for full belief in the pages that follow, I do want you to know that the occurrences which detail J. S. Hudson are of sound fact and truth; at least to the extent I heard.  I am only imparting a story that was foretold to me.
I came into light of this story some time ago while on carousal to one of my usual bars, and much invigorated with intoxicants.  As is my want, I welcomed the conversation of a man by the name of John S.