“I’ve heard that sometimes a version of you must die before another more enlightened version can be born. I think that’s true after watching the corpse of myself walk around.”
― Julie Flygare
I saw this quote and it reminded me of those posts that I’d write as letters to the old versions of myself. Julie Flygare put it into words far better than I could. I know I have a few corpses of my former selves lying around. This quote made me think that change isn’t always so bad.
He grasped her hips and pulled her against him. With his arm wrapped securely around her waist, he swayed them from side to side as his lips trailed kisses down her neck. She felt trapped and safe at the same time. In this moment, he needed her as much as she needed him. She lifted her hands up from where they rested on his chest and threaded them through his hair. Why he kept it long, she never asked and didn’t particularly care. She liked the hair and the man just as they were.
Amber eyes lifted to meet hers. There was so much emotion in them that she couldn’t single one out. Long lashes lowered and shielded his eyes from her as his lips descended to meet hers. There was a question in his kiss and she answered it eagerly. Yes, she said without speaking, I am yours.
The fallen glared down at the dead Nephilim in disgust. Did he have to bleed so much, he thought bitterly. He shot a glance at his partner on the roof of the building adjacent to the one the Nephilim resided in. He was keeping watch and would warn him of any unexpected visitors, whether it be fallen, Nephilim, or human. As far as they knew, the half-breed had lived alone and worked long hours, often getting home just barely before the first rays of dawn.
He heaved a sigh and twisted the key into the lock that had been giving the Nephilim so much trouble only minutes before. It twisted with ease and as the knob turned in his hand, he cocked his head. He could have sworn he’d heard. . . something. He glanced over to the rooftop of the neighboring building and frowned. Ephraim was gone.
Was that statuary always there, the man wondered as he jiggled the key in the lock for the umpteenth time. For some reason the lock wouldn’t budge and he couldn’t remember for the life of him when the building next to his had placed such a menacing statue of an angel on the roof. It doesn’t look very serene and angelic, he thought.
The man was so preoccupied with the glaring statue and the stubborn lock that he didn’t fill the quick bite of a knife across his throat till something warm dripped down chest and his knees gave out a few moments later.
As the world faded to darkness, he could have sworn he heard a voice say, “One Nephilim down.”
“He don’t look like much. I don’t think he’s one of them,” said the first one.
The other responded, “How do you know? You can’t tell if he’s Nephilim just by looking.”
The first one didn’t bother glancing at his friend. Instead his eyes tracked the pretty waitress around the diner. “Yeah, you can. If you know what to look for that is”, he remarked after his prey had disappeared behind the counter.
His friend regarded him. He spoke carefully, “Then who do you think it is then?”
The fallen finally dragged his gaze back to his partner. “Why the one that every male can’t seem to keep his eyes off of, including us, despite her not being much to look at”. He resumed his scrutiny of the woman in question.
The other fallen frowned. “The waitress?”, he asked. He too turned his gaze to watch her glide around the diner. Now that it was on his mind, there did seem something. . . off about her, something supernatural. The way she gracefully weaved in between tables, successfully dodging clumsy coworkers with overladen trays and grasping hands of overzealous patrons. The way the sunlight streaming in seemed to cling to her, casting the rest of the diner in shadows in her wake.
Nephilim, he thought, we’ve finally found the last of you.
“I want the whole world or nothing.”
― Charles Bukowski
How many times have I started a post with “wow, time has really flown” or something of that nature? Countless.
Well, it’s that time again. As of today, three years ago I called it quits. I decided to quit being the victim and do something about getting onto the road to recovery (not sure if recovery is the right word ).
I decided to take my life back. And I have, both in small and large ways. I decided to not let my abuse define me. My blog originally started off as a coping mechanism for my abuse and has evolved into a memoir with a collection of posts that cover a variety of topics, from my abuse to my minuscule talent as a poet.
I would like to thank all of you that have joined me on my journey to become the woman that I was always meant to be. Thank you!
And happy third anniversary to me!
If you’d like to take a look back in time at previous anniversaries to see how far we’ve come, I’ll post the links below.
2016: Two Years and Counting
While her heart was still racing and her face was flushed from what had almost happened, she fumbled with her buttons. Did he have to look so composed, she thought bitterly. She heard the seats creak beneath him as he shifted his weight. She didn’t look up. Until cool fingers grasped her chin and tilted her face up. She cringed in embarrassment. There was no sign of the desire that had darkened his eyes less than a minute ago. Those lush lips that haunted her dreams lifted into a smile.
“The next time you plan to seduce me in a car, pick a farther destination,” he remarked.
She crinkled her brow as his words set in. She blushed as a downward glance revealed just how affected he was, despite the inopportune interruption. Until next time, his eyes promised.