Set #4

I’m back at it with the Q&A! Ask me things, y’all. Here’s my fourth set of questions.


#1. How long was your longest relationship?

My current relationship is my longest relationship. It’ll be two years next week.

#2. How many times have you had your heart broken?

So much seriousness. The times that I’ve counted as truly being heart broken, not teenage puppy love heart broken, it’s been about 3. Unfortunately, all by the same person. I’m a sucker for punishment, I guess.

#3. If you were going to change your name, what would you change it to?

Nadia, Aviva, or Emilia. Those are my top three choices.

#4. What’s a quirk of yours?

Hmm. I don’t like to drink after people, even my significant other, who I’ve swapped saliva with. I don’t like sharing drinks. It seems more gross than kissing. I also bite my nails.

#5. If you could buy any car right now, what would it be?

I think I want a Volkswagen Passat 2016. I drove one as a rental and it was very nice. I wouldn’t want to buy a car that I’ve never driven before. An Audi would be nice, even though I’ve never driven one before.

#6. If you could be anything, career wise, what would it be?

A bestselling author or an actress.

#7. What is your Myers-Briggs Type personality?


#8. What’s your favorite type of dessert?

I love me some apple pie.

#9. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?

French Vanilla. I’m boring.

#10. How long have you been at your current job?

A little over a year. I made manager, y’all.




Personal · Snippets

A Mirage

“I knew I couldn’t keep you.” Unshed tears filled her eyes.

She thought back to a conversation they’d had not too long ago, that in hindsight should have been a sign of the end.

“What do you want?” He asked with concern in his eyes.

“You”, she replied.

A quizzical expression crossed his face. “What do you mean? I’m right here.”

She wanted to say, “No, you’re not. You’re here physically but in actuality you’re a million miles away.” She held tongue. He wouldn’t get it, just like he didn’t get it then.

But sometimes, she thought, he was there with her. He’d look at her as if seeing her after a long seperation. He’d see her, truly. And it felt so good to be seen. It seemed as if everyone but him looked right through, as if she was made of air.


Safety Blanket

“No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly.”
― Tiffany Madison

I don’t know how to describe it. This feeling of. . . moving on. I’m minoring in Criminal Justice and came across this passage about victims of child abuse. It stated that in one study officers ranked dealing with an abused child as the most stressful kind of situation they encounter. It occurred to me, with a feeling of aloofness, that I was once that child. It almost felt like a lifetime ago to recall my experience of sitting in a cheery little house, that I later learned was an advocacy house, and explaining in detail to the female officer the extent of my abuse.

Is it a sense of moving on or just another aspect of PTSD, feeling separate from the abuse and the child I once was? I don’t feel like the same person. I think I’m coming into myself and know myself a little better. I’m not that scared little girl anymore that tried to escape into herself, books, the shadows, anywhere no one would notice her.

It’s like. . . my abuse was a safety blanket. The fear, panic, depression, insomnia, all familiar emotions and old time friends. I don’t know what to feel anymore. It’s like I’m looking back and kind of missing the old me. Everything was familiar. What lay ahead, the unknown, scares me a little more than the past. Maybe that’s why some abuse survivors don’t move on. The feelings become all too familiar. You don’t want to let go. Your fears bring you comfort at night, for they are valid. But once you’ve moved on, accepted the past and shrugged off it’s grasp, what else is there?

Just a thought. I guess I’ve been coming a cross a few triggers lately. I think I’ve been handling them a bit better than I used to. I no longer break down and have a panic attack. I just. . . still can’t bring myself to forgive him. I don’t think I ever will. Innocent acts they seemed, pictures, touches, etc. And yet they left such an impact and took so much from me. I think there will always be a hole somewhere inside me that nothing can fill. The place where my innocence used to reside.




“All of us are products of our childhood.”
― Michael Jackson

Do you ever wonder if your experiences color your opinion of something?

I know my triggers and yet I still let them affect me. I was scrolling down my social media feed and came across an article by Global Citizen. When I read it, I couldn’t help but feel a familiar pang of fear, panic, and empathy. Every time I hear or read about sexual assault or abuse, it hits me deep in my chest. Because I’d been there. I didn’t have the same experience as those women but I have an inkling of what they feel and could imagine what they’d been through and are continuing to go through.

I often wonder if sexual assault/abuse would have been a sensitive subject for me if I hadn’t experienced it myself. I think sex crimes are the worst and I believe that I feel that way because I’d been a victim of it.

I just think that some people, myself included, are in their own personal bubble and sometimes oblivious to the world around them. I just wonder if I’d be as oblivious to the epidemic that is sex crimes if I hadn’t experienced it firsthand. I can’t help but imagine who I’d be or what I’d be like if my abuse hadn’t occurred. I don’t want to admit it but my abuse had in some ways shaped who I am today. Your experiences as a child tend to stick with you, particularly traumatic ones.




Her knees buckled and gave out beneath her. Tears filled her eyes as her lungs struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked out of them. The fallen that towered over her cackled gleefully as he unsheathed a dagger out of thin air. Firelight twinkled in his eyes as he leaned toward her, bringing with him the scent of pine needles.

“Say a prayer, Nephilim, but I doubt anybody will be listening”, he whispered as his fetid breath caressed her face.


A Novel Idea

Sorry for the hiatus. I knew I wouldn’t keep up with the two day deadline. Oh, well. It’s not like I’ve stopped writing or having ideas. Just hadn’t the time to type them out. Anyways, here’s something I found on my old computer




How could this happen? I kept wondering that same question as I gazed into my lukewarm Cappuccino. The incessant buzz of the voices around me became background noise. My life literally flashed before my eyes. I saw my epitaph and the engraving left me feeling as if I’d been dunked with cold water. 


JUNE 13, 1992 – APRIL 4, 2016 



How the hell could I die at the age of 24 in this day and age of advanced technology? I’ll tell you why. Because my soul was not my own. It belonged to the devil. The devil doesn’t exist, you say. Well, I can assure you he does. And he’s as handsome as sin. Smooth olive skin. Jet black hair that cascades down his back, almost as if it acted independently of the air around it. Amber eyes that seemed to sear into your soul. Perhaps they did. In the year of 2016, the devil’s current alias is Luke Brown. How unassuming. He’s a 40-something private contractor. A friend of my father’s, or so I’d been led to believe my entire life. 

I loved it when he came to visit. The skin around his eyes would crinkle when he smiled, his eyes always seemed to hold a spark of mischief, and his laughter would boom out of his chest, almost as if it was unaccustomed to the function. He always wore neutral colors, now that I think about it. Light seemed to shine everywhere but on him. My cat Simon was always weary in his presence. Perhaps animals do know more than humans. 


“Do you go to NYU?” 

I glanced up quizzically. I found myself staring into warm hazel eyes. “Huh?”, I said articulately. A flash of teeth. “Sorry. I saw the copy of Dante’s Inferno sitting next to your coffee and you appear to be around my age so I assumed you were reading it for Modern Epic Lit class. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you or anything.” The brunette with warm hazel eyes and an easy smile blushed cutely. I found myself smiling despite the severity of my situation. I found my voice and managed to say something a bit more coherent. 

“It’s no bother and you’re right. I do go to NYU. I actually haven’t cracked the book open.” I made a sparring glance at the people in the sixth circle of hell on the cover. “I had something else on my mind. Kind of starring off into space.” 


Epitaph of an Angel

Leaves crunched underfoot and the wind bit at her face. She tried to huddle more into her jacket. As she turned her face to avoid another powerful gust of wind, the beautiful rendition of an angel caught her gaze. She frowned as she tried to remember if she’d ever seen the carved gravestone before. She’d been visiting this cemetery every year for the past three years and took the same path. Surely she’d remember something of it’s like. It was so large and lifelike that it must have cost the family a fortune. And it seemed somehow out of place, as if it belonged in a museum somewhere, not in a cemetery that was nearly overrun with undergrowth.

Movement in her peripheral had her tearing her gaze from the gravestone to the man that was quickly approaching and soon kneeling before it. Raven hair fell forward like a shroud and shielded the man’s face from sight. She gasped and the hair fell away as he turned to look at her. Eyes the color of liquid gold bore into hers. Something about him, about those eyes, had her backing away and turning in the opposite direction. Once the man and the angel was out of sight, she broke into a run.

She soon found herself panting before the reason she’d come to the cemetery that day, in spite of the weather and the fact that she was due for work thirty minutes ago. She’d had to come. Today was her “birthday”, or at least the day her foster parents had found her on their door step. She was their miracle, their Moses. And in front of her stood the grave of the woman that had pushed her out into the river. Her biological mother.

“Isabeau Darling”, a smooth voice rumbled behind her. She stiffened and turned to lock eyes with the man that had been kneeling before the angel headstone. He’d followed her and his eyes seemed even brighter up close, as if backlit by some inner light. She shook the errant thought away. He was a man, nothing more, worse, a grieving man and she’d intruded on a clearly private moment.

“I’m sorry – “, she began.

“No need”, he interrupted. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”

She sighed with relief. So, he wasn’t crazy. She forced her lips into a semblance of a smile and attempted to start over. “No, I startled you first. I’m sorry. I was just so taken aback by the headstone. It’s very beautiful.”

“Thank you”, he replied smoothly. “Lilith was her name, and I think she would have liked it.”

What an odd name, she thought. Odder still was his accent that she still couldn’t place. She forged on. “I’m sure she would have. It’s quite the tribute.” She frowned as she found herself saying, “Isabeau was my mother. My biological mother. I’m adopted and I only found out about her 3 years ago but she’s been gone for sometime. Her death certificate says she died only a few days after my parents discovered me.”

Some internal voice told her to quit talking and to walk away from the very strange stranger. He was dangerous, the voice seemed to scream. But try as she might to move her feet, they seemed to be glued to the ground.

The stranger seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil and smiled. Her heart stuttered to a stop. His whole face seemed transformed. Laugh lines made his eyes crinkle and his eyes appeared a darker shade of gold, a more normal shade. The unease melted away and she found herself staring. He didn’t seem to mind. His lips were moving, he was talking.

“-to God”, he finished. He noted her quizzical expression and repeated himself, “Isabeau means pledged to God. It’s a beautiful name. What’s yours?”

That voice came back, only more forceful this time. It told her not to give him her name, to walk away while she still could. She frowned and glanced down at her feet. With her eyes no longer on him, she found that she could move them and that they responded to her commands.

With that newfound knowledge, she kept her gaze on her feet and responded, “I should be going. I’m late for work.”