Writing stuff
Apr. 12th, 2010 04:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sroniWow.
So, a few months ago, I found out about a writing contest that I wanted to enter. The issue was that it has to be a complete story under a certain amount of words. My bright idea was to take “Darkest Before Dawn”, my linked drabble series that (in my opinion) is some of the best writing I’ve done, and revamp it.
So I turned it into a full story, rather than a string of drabbles, and combined it with it’s predecessor, “Yesterday’s Echo of Tomorrow’s Scream”.
It worked, but not as well as I was hoping. It just wasn’t gelling.
So I switched it out of third person past (She said type thing) into first person present (I say).
That worked a little better, and I was quite proud of the result.
Then all of a sudden, I remembered Liz Marcs’ remix from last year, and how she told half of it in second person present, to give it that sense of urgency. And it was like the penny dropped for me.
That’s what I needed to do.
I argued. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t. I’ve never written second person in my life, it always feels awkward, and I hate, hate, HATE writing present tense. I HATE it. As awkward as second person feels to me, present feels about three times more so. (Just to clarify, the second person feeling awkward? I’m talking reading, not writing. The ONLY exception to that is the aforementioned Liz Marcs’ story. But that’s because she’s Liz Marcs and wonderfully talented and has worked her talents and knows the rules of writing so she can break those rules with reason.)
But I finally sat down and did it.
And DAMN, but it’s about ten times better than it was.
Sometimes I hate being right.
I’m going to post both versions, and let people tell me their opinions. I don’t want to be afraid of killing my darlings.
Second Person Present
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod-
Blackness.
* * *
Cold.
So cold.
Why am I so cold?
A detached, unemotional part of you realizes that it’s the kind of iciness that’s pervasive; it’s seeped into your bones and you can’t get warm, even with all the blankets piled up around and on top of you.
Someone’s pressing a mug of tea into your hands in an attempt to calm, soothe and warm you, the cheerful yellow smiley face at odds with the atmosphere of the room.
Warm.
Comforting.
Who? Oh. Mother.
It’s the fourth cup. Someone, either Mother or Daddy keeps handing you a cup of tea, and you drink it. Mother’s French, so she’s absolutely convinced that tea, chocolate, or wine is the answer to everything. You automatically raise the cup to your lips, your small, dark hands wrapped around the warm ceramic of the mug, trying to draw the warmth into yourself, even while you know that you’ll never be warm again. Because what’s making you cold right now isn’t temperature, but the emotions swarming around you, inside you. You’re shutting down emotionally so that you can process things at your own pace, much the way an autistic child pulls inward.
People are talking; you can hear the voices around you, floating on the air, but can’t make out words because you can’t force the words on the air to enter your ears. It’s like listening to a conversation while underwater- it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Can’t concentrate. You try to concentrate. Can’t. It hurts too much.
You burn your tongue on too hot chamomile tea.
Oh.
That’s what they’d been trying to tell you.
Tea sloshes over the edge of the cup into your blanket covered lap. You’re shaking. You didn’t know you were shaking until the tea spilled. Thoughts float up through the haze of your mind. “Why am I shaking? Why can’t I stop?”
“Bad. The world is bad. Bad. Why is the world bad? Why do people kill each other?” You don’t understand.
You don’t understand.
Your cheeks are wet. You wonder if you’re crying.
You are.
The tears slide down, dripping off your chin, but they fall unnoticed. They ceased to exist for you as soon as you realized you were crying. You’re at the level of grief and pain where you don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the salty tears on your skin- and now that you’ve felt them, you don’t care. They don’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing except what happened.
“Why? Why did this have to happen?” Your teeth are chattering, slamming together so hard it’s hurting. Good. You’re glad something physical is hurting. You’re glad, because your heart hurts so much you can’t breathe, each heartbeat a stabbing pain. Your heart hurts so much that it’s good to have a physical manifestation of your emotional pain.
Cold. So cold. Cold won’t go away.
Everything is bad.
You. You’re bad, too. You’d noticed the man following you, but hadn’t believed that he could be a threat.
Stupid.
You paid for that mistake.
So did Quinn.
“Quinn.”
“Oh, God! Why Quinn? Why him? The world needs more men like Quinn, why does it insist on getting rid of one of the few good guys? Why Quinn?”
The dam behind your throat breaks and all of a sudden, you’re crying, in deep, racking sobs that tear at your throat and sting your eyes and shake your whole body. You learn the difference between silent release of pain through tears, and weeping. The first was grief and guilt. Now, in the second, you’re sobbing out your grief and guilt and pain and despair. The first was negligible, and you could easily shove it aside. The second, the one happening now, consumes you, and you give myself up to it, your head spinning and your vision blurring.
Someone’s hugging you while another person is stroking your dark hair. “Oh. Parents. Right.” Daddy’s hugging you while Mother is hovering, doing the stroking. Daddy was always better at comfort than Mother was, but she tries.
Your fault. Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault-
Blackness.
* * *
You emerge from the blackness slowly, your brain feeling like it’s wrapped in cotton candy and been eaten by unicorns.
Someone sneaked a pain killer or something into your tea. You can tell by the woozy not-quite-there feeling you’re dealing with.
You run your tongue over your teeth and grimace at the taste.
Nope. Not a pill. Someone spiked your tea with whiskey. And you know who that someone was- Mother, in an attempt to help. You’d been too pulled in emotionally, too frozen, to notice.
But that doesn’t explain why your head feels like you took a pain killer. Unless Mother put the whiskey in, as she’s fond of doing, and Daddy tried to help with a pain pill in another cup.
Yeah, that sounds more like your parents.
You sit on your bed, wavering in indecision. Should you leave the room and deal with people, or should you stay? You’re hugging the stuffed rabbit Jack gave you close to your chest as tears course down your cheeks and memories of tonight, earlier, when the world was still good, wash over you, dragging you down.
The ice cream parlor.
The man.
The alleyway.
The man.
The gun.
The man.
The blood.
The scream.
The death.
The shock.
Waking up in the hospital.
The police.
Being taken home.
You hug Jack tight, his velvet ears tickling your nose as you give into the darkness yet again.
* * *
Fear.
Pain.
Misery.
You curl in on yourself.
No escape.
One escape.
You grip the knife tighter.
Your thoughts float to the surface again. “Can’t do this anymore.”
Life is too hard for those left behind.
You’ve been left behind. Abandoned.
The thought repeats itself. “Can’t do this anymore.”
Hurts too bad.
You press the blade into the sensitive flesh of your wrist and you welcome the pain. Blood wells up around the cut, turning the silver blade red, and drops of blood hit the tiled floor.
Cut up and down, not side to side.
You listen to the insidious voice, not noticing tears trickling down your cheeks.
<.b>Let it go.
New voice. Strong. Stronger than the other.
Let it go.\
You let it go.
The knife clatters against the bloody tile.
* * *
You huddle in the corner of your bed, every light blazing, pillows and blankets piled around you, Jack tight in your hold.
4:47.
You can’t sleep. You are too afraid that the voice that had prompted you in the bathroom to try to- you force yourself to think the words- kill yourself- will come back.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Which is seriously not a comforting thought to you right now.
You don’t want the voice to come back just when you let my guard down.
Trust me.
The stronger voice from before. You recognize it for what it is and find yourself lashing out in anger. “Why should I trust you? You weren’t there. I asked you for help. I begged you for help. You weren’t there!”
You can feel comfort and a sense of peace surround you. Which would be great, but you don’t want comfort. You don’t want peace. You want the world to hurt as much as you do right now.
I was there in the alley. I held both of you and I welcomed Quinn. I was there. I’m here now.
You hug Jack tighter than tight as tears streak down my cheeks.
You have enough of this crying. You get up and find your running shoes and start pulling them on.
It’s close enough to dawn. You’re going for a run. The door shut silently behind you and you embrace the coming morning, launching yourself into motion and letting the wind kiss your face.
“Faster. Gotta go faster.”
“Don’t think.”
“Just run.”
Air puffs in and out of your lungs and you regulate your breathing. In, two, out, two, in, two, out, two. Your breaths are timed to the slaps of your sneakers on the cement.
“Don’t think.”
“Don’t think.”
“Don’t think.”
You can’t run from your demons.
You can’t run from me. I’m always with you.
You run faster.
You find myself outside a church, and for some inexplicable reason, decide to go inside, sitting in the front pew, looking up at a stained glass window. It’s a picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Ten to one the verse that accompanies it is the one about having the faith of a child, and all that.
You stop.
You look closer.
One of those kids looks like you when you were little.
The one that He’s holding.
I’ve always held you. Even when you didn’t want to know.
You’re shocked to your core and you find yourself uttering one word, because you’re at a loss for others. "Why?"
Because I love you. You are my beloved.
You settle into the pew comfortably. “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here and I’m listening. Gotta start somewhere.”
***
Running from your demons doesn’t work. They’ll always find you.
Always.
The only way to really get rid of them is to banish them. And to do that, you have to know them by name.
You write out prayers, denying the demon’s entry to your apartment and rooms, once you realize that’s what the voice that encouraged you to commit suicide was. You specify in those prayers quite specifically that nothing is to come in without your knowledge and permission. You turn the prayers into artwork, using calligraphy, so that you can hang each one above the door frame and not receive weird looks from people.
It works.
Your apartment is safe. You are safe, as long as you’re in your apartment.
But you can’t stay in your apartment forever.
Things are starting to look up, starting to get better. The optimistic part of you is holding onto hope that it will last. The pessimistic part is wondering when everything will get around to falling down around you again.
Beloved, you are not trusting me yet.
“I’m working on it. I’m trying to trust you. ‘I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.’ That’s where I’m at. And I don’t want to be there. So help me. Help my unbelief. I want to trust you. Help me get rid of the things keeping me from trusting."
You finish lacing up your sneakers.
Time to run.
Running is when you’re free. Running is when you’re unburdened. Running is when you’re truly yourself.
When you reach your destination, you feel like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs.
You wipe your hands on your shorts and take a deep breath. You can’t do this.
You can not do this.
You will do this.
“Come on, chica, you can do this. You have to do this. For them. For Quinn. For yourself. Just do it.”
Just do it? Great. Now you’re channeling Michael Jordan from those old Nike commercials. With your luck, the next thing you’ll talking about is fruit of the loom.
You will your hand to rise and knock on the door.
You will yourself to stay right where you are and not turn tail and run. You owe it to Quinn to face his parents.
The door opens. "Hi, Mrs. Johnson."
You’re expecting condemnation. Instead, you found yourself wrapped in a hug, while the tall, blonde woman, the mother of your dead fiancé, cries on your shoulder.
***
You need to leave. You need to start over. You need to make sure that nothing like what You’ve already been through happens ever again.
You can’t go through this again. The first time damn near killed you. Going through it again would destroy you.
If you were a strong enough person, you’d become a police officer.
But you can’t do that. You don’t think you’re strong enough- and you don’t live in the best area. Leaving the gang was hard enough, but if you became a police officer, you’d be dead, your family would be dead, inside of a week.
You need to help people.
If you were stronger, you’d become an EMT.
You can’t do that. You don’t think you’re strong enough to relive the memories that would come up every time.
But you have to help people. You have to help stop bad things from happening.
So you join the Air Force. Your parents are oh so very thrilled- meaning they aren’t- about that choice.
But you need to do it.
Your things are boxed up in Mother and Daddy’s apartment, in your old room. You have nothing, except them, holding you here. And what you won’t tell them is that their hold on you isn’t strong enough to keep you here anymore.
You turn your lights out in your apartment for the last time and head to the airport, to go to your first assignment.
No turning back now.
After a typical subway trip, the check in process, the hours of waiting, you’re finally buckling your seatbelt.
Beloved, even if you go to the ends of the Earth, or beyond, you won’t lose me.
“I don’t want to lose you. I’m doing this because I have to. I couldn’t stay in New York. I had to leave.”
Alaska’s not going to be far enough to run from your demons. You have to trust me.
“I trust you every day. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kept using that knife." Your hand automatically moves to your wrist, wrapped around the sleeve covering the white scars against olive skin.
Wherever you go, Beloved, there am I with you.
You don’t have a response, so you settle into a comforting sleep, not waking up until the plane lands. You get out of the airplane, the airport, as fast as you can, renting a car and just driving, before finally stopping and stepping out.
You look out over the great expanse of white.
.
A clean slate.
That’s what you need. Pure white, clean slate.
To start over.
You already have a clean slate. I have already bought and paid for you and washed you clean and pure.
"I still don’t understand, although I’m beginning to. Why do you love me this much? Why me?" The words burst out of you as you ache to get it. You want to get it. You want to understand. But it just doesn’t make sense to you.
Because. I created you. You are my beloved. I love you. Why not you? Are you the only person in the world I can not love? No. Of course not. I love you.
Sometimes "why" is the wrong question.
"Okay. I’m here. Now what?" You’re hoping this is a better question.
Now you do what I continue telling you. Trust me.
You can feel yourself get frustrated at hearing the same thing over and over."I am trusting you. I’ve been trusting you since the night in the bathroom. Why do you keep telling me I need to trust you?"
You feel a sigh. Maria. It is not trust when you are making decisions without asking me. The rebuke comes softly and gently.
"I’m only making the decisions myself because-" You stop suddenly as the realization hits you.
Because you are afraid I am going to abandon you.
You nod silently, ashamed.
You feel the wind touch your face, as though gentle fingers has cupped your chin. I will never leave you, never abandon you, never forsake you.
"Lord, I’m so sorry." You barely manage to stay upright on unsteady legs, to keep your knees from buckling and sending you sprawling on the snowy ground..
You are forgiven.
You start babbling your apology. "I’m sorry. I keep saying I trust you. I keep saying I’m handing the wheel over to you, that I’m giving up control and giving it to you, and then I keep taking it back."
You are forgiven.
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not really trusting you. I’m sorry."
Let it go. The command comes gently but firmly.
You stop.
You let it go.
You cast your fears and doubts and sorrow to the wind, and let them all fall to the ice and shatter.
The land around you is an infinite expanse of white, of purity. The feeling surrounding you right now is infinite love. It’s not just surrounding you now, though. It always surrounds you, always wraps around you with the comfort of a warm and much loved blanket.
Not a smothering love. Just holding you, holding you close, holding you gently.
Always loving.
"I don’t understand." Your voice comes out in a whisper, and you can feel your eyes tearing up at the wonder of it all. "I don’t understand why you love me. I know I don’t deserve it."
Beloved, all fall short of perfection. No one deserves it. But I love you anyway.
Suddenly, it clicks for you.
God is love.
Simple.
So simple.
God is love in it’s purest form. A love so pure and simple it’s beyond comprehension. He can’t not love one of His creations without denying Himself.
God is love.
God is love.
First Person Present
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod-
Blackness.
* * *
Cold.
So cold.
Why am I so cold?
A detached, unemotional part of me realizes that it’s the kind of iciness that’s pervasive; it’s seeped into my bones and I can’t get warm, even with all the blankets piled up around me and on top of me.
Someone’s pressing a mug of tea into my hands in an attempt to calm, soothe and warm me, the cheerful yellow smily face at odds with the atmosphere of the room.
Warm.
Comforting.
Who? Oh. Mother.
It’s the fourth one. Someone, either Mother or Daddy keeps handing me a cup of tea, and I drink it. Mother’s French, so she’s absolutely convinced that tea, chocolate, or wine is the answer to everything. I automatically raise the cup to my lips, my small, dark hands wrapped around the warm ceramic of the mug, trying to draw the warmth into myself, even while I know that I’ll never be warm again. Because what’s making me cold right now isn’t temperature, but the emotions swarming around me, inside me. I’m shutting down emotionally so that I can process things at my own pace, much the way an autistic child pulls inward.
People are talking; I can hear the voices around me, floating on the air, but can’t make out words because I can’t force the words on the air to enter my ears. It’s like listening to a conversation while I’m underwater- it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Can’t concentrate. I try to concentrate. Can’t. It hurts too much.
I burn my tongue on too hot chamomile tea. Oh. That’s what they’d been trying to tell me.
Tea sloshes over the edge of the cup into my blanket covered lap. I’m shaking. I didn’t know I was shaking until the tea spilled. Why am I shaking? Why can’t I stop?
Bad. The world is bad. Bad. Why is the world bad? Why do people kill each other? I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
My cheeks are wet. Am I crying? I am. The tears slide down, dripping off my chin, but they fall unnoticed. They ceased to exist for me as soon as I realized I was crying. I’m at that level of grief and pain where I honestly don’t know that I’m crying until I feel the tears on my skin- and now that I’ve felt them, I don’t care. They don’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing except what happened.
Why? Why did this have to happen?
My teeth are chattering, so hard it’s hurting.
Good. I’m glad something physical is hurting. I’m glad, because my heart hurts so much that it’s good to have a physical manifestation of this pain.
Cold. So cold. Cold won’t go away.
Everything is bad.
Me. I’m bad, too. I’d noticed the man following us, but hadn’t believed that he could be a threat.
Stupid.
I’d paid for that mistake.
So had Quinn.
Quinn.
Oh, God! Why Quinn? Why him? The world needs more men like Quinn, why does it insist on getting rid of one of the few good guys? Why Quinn?
The dam behind my throat breaks and all of a sudden, I’m crying, in deep, racking sobs that tear at my throat and sting my eyes and shake my whole body. I learned the difference between silent release of pain through tears and weeping. Te first was grief and guilt. This time, I’m sobbing out my grief and guilt and pain and despair. The first was negligible, and I could easily shove it aside. The second, the one happening now, consumes me, and I give myself up to it, my head spinning and my vision blurring.
Someone’s hugging me while another person is stroking my dark hair. Oh. Parents. Right. Daddy’s hugging me while Mother is hovering, doing the stroking. Daddy was always better at comfort than Mother was, but she tries.
My fault. Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault-
Blackness.
* * *
I emerge from the blackness slowly, my brain feeling like it’s wrapped in cotton.
Someone had snuck a pain killer or something into my tea. That’s the only time I get this feeling.
I ran my tongue over my teeth and grimaced at the taste.
Nope. Not a pill. Someone spiked my tea with whiskey. And I know who that someone was- Mother, in an attempt to help. I’d been too pulled in emotionally, too frozen, to notice.
But that doesn’t explain why my head feels like I took a pain killer. Unless Mother put the whiskey in, as she’s fond of doing, and Daddy tried to help with a pain pill in another cup.
Yeah, that sounds more like my parents.
I sit on my bed, wavering in indecision, not knowing what to do, hugging the stuffed rabbit Quinn gave me close as tears coursed down my cheeks and memories of tonight wash over me, dragging me down.
The ice cream parlor.
The man.
The alleyway.
The man.
The gun.
The man.
The blood.
The scream.
The death.
The shock.
Waking up in the hospital.
The police.
Being taken home.
I hug Jack tight, his velvet ears tickling my nose as I give into the darkness yet again.
* * *
Fear.
Pain.
Misery.
I curl in on myself.
No escape.
One escape.
I grip the knife tighter.
Can’t do this anymore.
Life is too hard for those left behind.
I’ve been left behind. Abandoned.
Can’t do this anymore.
Hurts too bad.
I press the blade into the sensitive flesh of my wrist. Blood wells up around the cut, turning the silver blade red, and drops of blood hit the tiled floor.
Cut up and down, not side to side.
I listen to the insidious voice, not noticing tears coursing down my cheeks.
Let it go.
New voice. Strong. Stronger than the other.
Let it go.
I let it go.
The knife clatters against the bloody tile.
* * *
I huddle in the corner of my bed, every light blazing, pillows and blankets piled around me, Jack tight in my hold.
4:47.
I can’t sleep. I’m too afraid that the voice that had prompted me in the bathroom to try to- gulp- kill myself would come back.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Which is seriously not a comforting thought.
I don’t want the voice to come back just when I let my guard down.
Trust me.
The stronger voice from before. I recognize it and find myself lashing out in anger. "Why should I trust you? You weren’t there. I asked you for help. I begged you for help. You weren’t there!"
I can feel comfort and a sense of peace surround me.
I was there in the alley. I held both of you and I welcomed Quinn. I was there. I’m here now.
I hug Jack tighter than tight as tears streak down my cheeks.
Enough of this crying. I get up and find my running shoes and start pulling them on.
It’s close enough to dawn. I’m going for a run. The door shut silently behind me and I embrace the coming morning, launching myself into motion and letting the wind kiss my face.
Faster. Gotta go faster.
Don’t think.
Just run.
Air puffs in and out of my lungs and I regulate my breathing. In, two, out, two, in, two, out, two. My breaths are timed to the slaps of my sneakers on the cement.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
You can’t run from your demons.
You can’t run from me. I’m always with you.
Run faster.
I find myself outside a church, and for some inexplicable reason, decide to go inside, sitting in the front pew, looking up at a stained glass window. It’s a picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Ten to one the verse that accompanies it is the one about having the faith of a child, and all that.
Wait a minute.
One of those kids- one of those kids looks like me when I was little.
The one that He’s holding.
I’ve always held you, Maria. Even when you didn’t want to know.
I’m shocked to my core and I find myself uttering one word, because I’m at a loss for others. "Why?"
Because I love you. You are my beloved.
I settle into the pew comfortably. “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here and I’m listening. Gotta start somewhere.”
***
Running from your demons doesn’t work. They’ll always find you.
Always.
The only way to really get rid of them is to banish them. And to do that, you have to know them by name.
I wrote out prayers, denying the demon’s entry to my apartment and rooms, once I realized that’s what the voice that encouraged me to commit suicide was. I specified in those prayers quite specifically that nothing was to come in without my knowledge or permission. I turned the prayers into artwork, using calligraphy, so that I could hang each one above the door frame and not receive weird looks from people.
It worked.
My apartment is safe. I am safe, as long as I’m in my apartment.
But I can’t stay in my apartment forever.
Things are starting to look up, starting to get better. The optimistic part of me is holding onto hope that it will last. The pessimistic part is wondering when everything will get around to falling down around me again.
Beloved, you are not trusting me yet.
I mutter under my breath, not willing to look crazy to the people around me, “I’m working on it. I’m trying to trust you. ‘I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.’ That’s where I’m at. And I don’t want to be there. So help me. Help my unbelief. I want to trust you. Help me get rid of the things keeping me from trusting."
I finish lacing up my sneakers.
Time to run.
Running is when I’m free. Running is when I’m unburdened. Running is when I’m truly herself.
When I reach my destination, I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs.
I wipe my hands on my shorts and take a deep breath. I can’t do this.
I can not do this.
I will do this.
“Come on, Maria, you can do this. You have to do this. For them. For Quinn. For yourself. Just do it.”
Just do it? Great. Now I’m channeling Michael Jordan from those old Nike commercials. With my luck, the next thing I’ll talking about is fruit of the loom.
I will my hand to rise and knock on the door.
I will myself to stay right where I am and not turn tail and run. I owe it to Quinn to face his parents.
The door opens. "Hi, Mrs. Johnson."
I’d been expecting condemnation. Instead, I found myself wrapped in a hug, while the tall, blonde woman, the mother of my dead fiancé, cried on my shoulder.
***
I need to leave. I need to start over. I need to make sure that nothing like what I’ve already been through happens ever again.
I can’t go through this again. The first time damn near killed me. Going through it again would destroy me.
If I were a strong enough person, I’d become a police officer.
But I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough- and I don’t live in the best area. Leaving the gang was hard enough, but if I became a police officer, I’d be dead, my family would be dead, inside of a week.
I need to help people.
If I were stronger, I’d become an EMT.
I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough to relive the memories that would come up every time.
But I have to help people. I have to help stop bad things from happening.
So I joined the Air Force. My parents were oh so very thrilled- meaning they weren’t- about that choice.
But I need to do it.
My things are boxed up and in Mother and Daddy’s apartment, in my old room. I have nothing, except them, holding me here. And, much as I hate to tell them, their hold on me isn’t strong enough to keep me here.
I turn my lights out for the last time and head to the airport, to go to my first station.
No turning back now.
After a typical subway trip, the check in process, the hours of waiting, I’m finally buckling my seatbelt.
Beloved, even if you go to the ends of the Earth, or beyond, you won’t lose me.
"I don’t want to lose you. I’m doing this because I have to. I couldn’t stay in New York. I had to leave."
Alaska’s not going to be far enough to run from your demons. You have to trust me.
"I trust you every day. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kept using that knife." My hand automatically moves to my wrist, wrapped around the sleeve covering the white scars against olive skin.
Wherever you go, Beloved, there am I with you.
I don’t have a response, so I settle into a comforting sleep, not waking up until the plane lands. I got out of the airplane, the airport, as fast as I could, renting a car and just driving, before finally stopping and stepping out.
I look out over the great expanse of white.
A clean slate.
That’s what I need. Pure white, clean slate.
To start over.
You already have a clean slate. I have already bought and paid for you and washed you clean and pure.
"I still don’t understand, although I’m beginning to. Why do you love me this much? Why me?"
Because. I created you. You are my beloved. I love you. Why not you? Are you the only person in the world I can not love? No. Of course not. I love you.
Sometimes "why" was the wrong question.
"Okay. I’m here. Now what?" Maybe this would be a better question.
Now you do what I continue telling you. Trust me.
I can feel myself get frustrated at hearing the same thing over and over."I am trusting you. I’ve been trusting you since the night in the bathroom. Why do you keep telling me I need to trust you?"
I feel a sigh. Maria. It is not trust when you are making decisions without asking me. The rebuke comes softly and gently.
"I’m only making the decisions myself because-" I stop suddenly as the realization hits me.
Because you are afraid I am going to abandon you.
I nod silently, ashamed.
I feel the wind touch my face, as though gentle fingers had cupped my chin. I will never leave you, never abandon you, never forsake you.
"Lord, I’m so sorry." I barely manage to stay upright on unsteady legs, to keep my knees from buckling and sending me sprawling on the snowy ground..
You are forgiven.
I start babbling my apology. "I’m sorry. I keep saying I trust you. I keep saying I’m handing the wheel over to you, that I’m giving up control and giving it to you, and then I keep taking it back."
You are forgiven.
As always, read, review, let me know. :D
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not really trusting you. I’m sorry."
Let it go. The command came gently but firmly.
I stop.
I let it go.
I cast my fears and doubts and sorrow to the wind, and let them all fall to the ice and shatter.
The land around me is an infinite expanse of white, of purity. The feeling surrounding me right now is infinite love. It’s not just surrounding me now, though. It always surrounds me, always wraps around me with the comfort of a warm and much loved blanket.
Not a smothering love. Just holding me, holding me close, holding me gently.
Always loving.
"I don’t understand." My voice comes out in a whisper, and I can feel my eyes tearing up at the wonder of it all. "I don’t understand why you love me. I know I don’t deserve it."
Beloved, all fall short of perfection. No one deserves it. But I love you anyway.
Suddenly, it clicked for me.
God is love.
Simple.
So simple.
God is love in it’s purest form. A love so pure and simple it’s beyond comprehension. He couldn’t not love one of his creations without denying Himself.
God is love.
So, a few months ago, I found out about a writing contest that I wanted to enter. The issue was that it has to be a complete story under a certain amount of words. My bright idea was to take “Darkest Before Dawn”, my linked drabble series that (in my opinion) is some of the best writing I’ve done, and revamp it.
So I turned it into a full story, rather than a string of drabbles, and combined it with it’s predecessor, “Yesterday’s Echo of Tomorrow’s Scream”.
It worked, but not as well as I was hoping. It just wasn’t gelling.
So I switched it out of third person past (She said type thing) into first person present (I say).
That worked a little better, and I was quite proud of the result.
Then all of a sudden, I remembered Liz Marcs’ remix from last year, and how she told half of it in second person present, to give it that sense of urgency. And it was like the penny dropped for me.
That’s what I needed to do.
I argued. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t. I’ve never written second person in my life, it always feels awkward, and I hate, hate, HATE writing present tense. I HATE it. As awkward as second person feels to me, present feels about three times more so. (Just to clarify, the second person feeling awkward? I’m talking reading, not writing. The ONLY exception to that is the aforementioned Liz Marcs’ story. But that’s because she’s Liz Marcs and wonderfully talented and has worked her talents and knows the rules of writing so she can break those rules with reason.)
But I finally sat down and did it.
And DAMN, but it’s about ten times better than it was.
Sometimes I hate being right.
I’m going to post both versions, and let people tell me their opinions. I don’t want to be afraid of killing my darlings.
Second Person Present
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod-
Blackness.
* * *
Cold.
So cold.
Why am I so cold?
A detached, unemotional part of you realizes that it’s the kind of iciness that’s pervasive; it’s seeped into your bones and you can’t get warm, even with all the blankets piled up around and on top of you.
Someone’s pressing a mug of tea into your hands in an attempt to calm, soothe and warm you, the cheerful yellow smiley face at odds with the atmosphere of the room.
Warm.
Comforting.
Who? Oh. Mother.
It’s the fourth cup. Someone, either Mother or Daddy keeps handing you a cup of tea, and you drink it. Mother’s French, so she’s absolutely convinced that tea, chocolate, or wine is the answer to everything. You automatically raise the cup to your lips, your small, dark hands wrapped around the warm ceramic of the mug, trying to draw the warmth into yourself, even while you know that you’ll never be warm again. Because what’s making you cold right now isn’t temperature, but the emotions swarming around you, inside you. You’re shutting down emotionally so that you can process things at your own pace, much the way an autistic child pulls inward.
People are talking; you can hear the voices around you, floating on the air, but can’t make out words because you can’t force the words on the air to enter your ears. It’s like listening to a conversation while underwater- it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Can’t concentrate. You try to concentrate. Can’t. It hurts too much.
You burn your tongue on too hot chamomile tea.
Oh.
That’s what they’d been trying to tell you.
Tea sloshes over the edge of the cup into your blanket covered lap. You’re shaking. You didn’t know you were shaking until the tea spilled. Thoughts float up through the haze of your mind. “Why am I shaking? Why can’t I stop?”
“Bad. The world is bad. Bad. Why is the world bad? Why do people kill each other?” You don’t understand.
You don’t understand.
Your cheeks are wet. You wonder if you’re crying.
You are.
The tears slide down, dripping off your chin, but they fall unnoticed. They ceased to exist for you as soon as you realized you were crying. You’re at the level of grief and pain where you don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the salty tears on your skin- and now that you’ve felt them, you don’t care. They don’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing except what happened.
“Why? Why did this have to happen?” Your teeth are chattering, slamming together so hard it’s hurting. Good. You’re glad something physical is hurting. You’re glad, because your heart hurts so much you can’t breathe, each heartbeat a stabbing pain. Your heart hurts so much that it’s good to have a physical manifestation of your emotional pain.
Cold. So cold. Cold won’t go away.
Everything is bad.
You. You’re bad, too. You’d noticed the man following you, but hadn’t believed that he could be a threat.
Stupid.
You paid for that mistake.
So did Quinn.
“Quinn.”
“Oh, God! Why Quinn? Why him? The world needs more men like Quinn, why does it insist on getting rid of one of the few good guys? Why Quinn?”
The dam behind your throat breaks and all of a sudden, you’re crying, in deep, racking sobs that tear at your throat and sting your eyes and shake your whole body. You learn the difference between silent release of pain through tears, and weeping. The first was grief and guilt. Now, in the second, you’re sobbing out your grief and guilt and pain and despair. The first was negligible, and you could easily shove it aside. The second, the one happening now, consumes you, and you give myself up to it, your head spinning and your vision blurring.
Someone’s hugging you while another person is stroking your dark hair. “Oh. Parents. Right.” Daddy’s hugging you while Mother is hovering, doing the stroking. Daddy was always better at comfort than Mother was, but she tries.
Your fault. Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault-
Blackness.
* * *
You emerge from the blackness slowly, your brain feeling like it’s wrapped in cotton candy and been eaten by unicorns.
Someone sneaked a pain killer or something into your tea. You can tell by the woozy not-quite-there feeling you’re dealing with.
You run your tongue over your teeth and grimace at the taste.
Nope. Not a pill. Someone spiked your tea with whiskey. And you know who that someone was- Mother, in an attempt to help. You’d been too pulled in emotionally, too frozen, to notice.
But that doesn’t explain why your head feels like you took a pain killer. Unless Mother put the whiskey in, as she’s fond of doing, and Daddy tried to help with a pain pill in another cup.
Yeah, that sounds more like your parents.
You sit on your bed, wavering in indecision. Should you leave the room and deal with people, or should you stay? You’re hugging the stuffed rabbit Jack gave you close to your chest as tears course down your cheeks and memories of tonight, earlier, when the world was still good, wash over you, dragging you down.
The ice cream parlor.
The man.
The alleyway.
The man.
The gun.
The man.
The blood.
The scream.
The death.
The shock.
Waking up in the hospital.
The police.
Being taken home.
You hug Jack tight, his velvet ears tickling your nose as you give into the darkness yet again.
* * *
Fear.
Pain.
Misery.
You curl in on yourself.
No escape.
One escape.
You grip the knife tighter.
Your thoughts float to the surface again. “Can’t do this anymore.”
Life is too hard for those left behind.
You’ve been left behind. Abandoned.
The thought repeats itself. “Can’t do this anymore.”
Hurts too bad.
You press the blade into the sensitive flesh of your wrist and you welcome the pain. Blood wells up around the cut, turning the silver blade red, and drops of blood hit the tiled floor.
Cut up and down, not side to side.
You listen to the insidious voice, not noticing tears trickling down your cheeks.
<.b>Let it go.
New voice. Strong. Stronger than the other.
Let it go.\
You let it go.
The knife clatters against the bloody tile.
* * *
You huddle in the corner of your bed, every light blazing, pillows and blankets piled around you, Jack tight in your hold.
4:47.
You can’t sleep. You are too afraid that the voice that had prompted you in the bathroom to try to- you force yourself to think the words- kill yourself- will come back.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Which is seriously not a comforting thought to you right now.
You don’t want the voice to come back just when you let my guard down.
Trust me.
The stronger voice from before. You recognize it for what it is and find yourself lashing out in anger. “Why should I trust you? You weren’t there. I asked you for help. I begged you for help. You weren’t there!”
You can feel comfort and a sense of peace surround you. Which would be great, but you don’t want comfort. You don’t want peace. You want the world to hurt as much as you do right now.
I was there in the alley. I held both of you and I welcomed Quinn. I was there. I’m here now.
You hug Jack tighter than tight as tears streak down my cheeks.
You have enough of this crying. You get up and find your running shoes and start pulling them on.
It’s close enough to dawn. You’re going for a run. The door shut silently behind you and you embrace the coming morning, launching yourself into motion and letting the wind kiss your face.
“Faster. Gotta go faster.”
“Don’t think.”
“Just run.”
Air puffs in and out of your lungs and you regulate your breathing. In, two, out, two, in, two, out, two. Your breaths are timed to the slaps of your sneakers on the cement.
“Don’t think.”
“Don’t think.”
“Don’t think.”
You can’t run from your demons.
You can’t run from me. I’m always with you.
You run faster.
You find myself outside a church, and for some inexplicable reason, decide to go inside, sitting in the front pew, looking up at a stained glass window. It’s a picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Ten to one the verse that accompanies it is the one about having the faith of a child, and all that.
You stop.
You look closer.
One of those kids looks like you when you were little.
The one that He’s holding.
I’ve always held you. Even when you didn’t want to know.
You’re shocked to your core and you find yourself uttering one word, because you’re at a loss for others. "Why?"
Because I love you. You are my beloved.
You settle into the pew comfortably. “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here and I’m listening. Gotta start somewhere.”
***
Running from your demons doesn’t work. They’ll always find you.
Always.
The only way to really get rid of them is to banish them. And to do that, you have to know them by name.
You write out prayers, denying the demon’s entry to your apartment and rooms, once you realize that’s what the voice that encouraged you to commit suicide was. You specify in those prayers quite specifically that nothing is to come in without your knowledge and permission. You turn the prayers into artwork, using calligraphy, so that you can hang each one above the door frame and not receive weird looks from people.
It works.
Your apartment is safe. You are safe, as long as you’re in your apartment.
But you can’t stay in your apartment forever.
Things are starting to look up, starting to get better. The optimistic part of you is holding onto hope that it will last. The pessimistic part is wondering when everything will get around to falling down around you again.
Beloved, you are not trusting me yet.
“I’m working on it. I’m trying to trust you. ‘I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.’ That’s where I’m at. And I don’t want to be there. So help me. Help my unbelief. I want to trust you. Help me get rid of the things keeping me from trusting."
You finish lacing up your sneakers.
Time to run.
Running is when you’re free. Running is when you’re unburdened. Running is when you’re truly yourself.
When you reach your destination, you feel like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs.
You wipe your hands on your shorts and take a deep breath. You can’t do this.
You can not do this.
You will do this.
“Come on, chica, you can do this. You have to do this. For them. For Quinn. For yourself. Just do it.”
Just do it? Great. Now you’re channeling Michael Jordan from those old Nike commercials. With your luck, the next thing you’ll talking about is fruit of the loom.
You will your hand to rise and knock on the door.
You will yourself to stay right where you are and not turn tail and run. You owe it to Quinn to face his parents.
The door opens. "Hi, Mrs. Johnson."
You’re expecting condemnation. Instead, you found yourself wrapped in a hug, while the tall, blonde woman, the mother of your dead fiancé, cries on your shoulder.
***
You need to leave. You need to start over. You need to make sure that nothing like what You’ve already been through happens ever again.
You can’t go through this again. The first time damn near killed you. Going through it again would destroy you.
If you were a strong enough person, you’d become a police officer.
But you can’t do that. You don’t think you’re strong enough- and you don’t live in the best area. Leaving the gang was hard enough, but if you became a police officer, you’d be dead, your family would be dead, inside of a week.
You need to help people.
If you were stronger, you’d become an EMT.
You can’t do that. You don’t think you’re strong enough to relive the memories that would come up every time.
But you have to help people. You have to help stop bad things from happening.
So you join the Air Force. Your parents are oh so very thrilled- meaning they aren’t- about that choice.
But you need to do it.
Your things are boxed up in Mother and Daddy’s apartment, in your old room. You have nothing, except them, holding you here. And what you won’t tell them is that their hold on you isn’t strong enough to keep you here anymore.
You turn your lights out in your apartment for the last time and head to the airport, to go to your first assignment.
No turning back now.
After a typical subway trip, the check in process, the hours of waiting, you’re finally buckling your seatbelt.
Beloved, even if you go to the ends of the Earth, or beyond, you won’t lose me.
“I don’t want to lose you. I’m doing this because I have to. I couldn’t stay in New York. I had to leave.”
Alaska’s not going to be far enough to run from your demons. You have to trust me.
“I trust you every day. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kept using that knife." Your hand automatically moves to your wrist, wrapped around the sleeve covering the white scars against olive skin.
Wherever you go, Beloved, there am I with you.
You don’t have a response, so you settle into a comforting sleep, not waking up until the plane lands. You get out of the airplane, the airport, as fast as you can, renting a car and just driving, before finally stopping and stepping out.
You look out over the great expanse of white.
.
A clean slate.
That’s what you need. Pure white, clean slate.
To start over.
You already have a clean slate. I have already bought and paid for you and washed you clean and pure.
"I still don’t understand, although I’m beginning to. Why do you love me this much? Why me?" The words burst out of you as you ache to get it. You want to get it. You want to understand. But it just doesn’t make sense to you.
Because. I created you. You are my beloved. I love you. Why not you? Are you the only person in the world I can not love? No. Of course not. I love you.
Sometimes "why" is the wrong question.
"Okay. I’m here. Now what?" You’re hoping this is a better question.
Now you do what I continue telling you. Trust me.
You can feel yourself get frustrated at hearing the same thing over and over."I am trusting you. I’ve been trusting you since the night in the bathroom. Why do you keep telling me I need to trust you?"
You feel a sigh. Maria. It is not trust when you are making decisions without asking me. The rebuke comes softly and gently.
"I’m only making the decisions myself because-" You stop suddenly as the realization hits you.
Because you are afraid I am going to abandon you.
You nod silently, ashamed.
You feel the wind touch your face, as though gentle fingers has cupped your chin. I will never leave you, never abandon you, never forsake you.
"Lord, I’m so sorry." You barely manage to stay upright on unsteady legs, to keep your knees from buckling and sending you sprawling on the snowy ground..
You are forgiven.
You start babbling your apology. "I’m sorry. I keep saying I trust you. I keep saying I’m handing the wheel over to you, that I’m giving up control and giving it to you, and then I keep taking it back."
You are forgiven.
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not really trusting you. I’m sorry."
Let it go. The command comes gently but firmly.
You stop.
You let it go.
You cast your fears and doubts and sorrow to the wind, and let them all fall to the ice and shatter.
The land around you is an infinite expanse of white, of purity. The feeling surrounding you right now is infinite love. It’s not just surrounding you now, though. It always surrounds you, always wraps around you with the comfort of a warm and much loved blanket.
Not a smothering love. Just holding you, holding you close, holding you gently.
Always loving.
"I don’t understand." Your voice comes out in a whisper, and you can feel your eyes tearing up at the wonder of it all. "I don’t understand why you love me. I know I don’t deserve it."
Beloved, all fall short of perfection. No one deserves it. But I love you anyway.
Suddenly, it clicks for you.
God is love.
Simple.
So simple.
God is love in it’s purest form. A love so pure and simple it’s beyond comprehension. He can’t not love one of His creations without denying Himself.
God is love.
God is love.
First Person Present
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod-
Blackness.
* * *
Cold.
So cold.
Why am I so cold?
A detached, unemotional part of me realizes that it’s the kind of iciness that’s pervasive; it’s seeped into my bones and I can’t get warm, even with all the blankets piled up around me and on top of me.
Someone’s pressing a mug of tea into my hands in an attempt to calm, soothe and warm me, the cheerful yellow smily face at odds with the atmosphere of the room.
Warm.
Comforting.
Who? Oh. Mother.
It’s the fourth one. Someone, either Mother or Daddy keeps handing me a cup of tea, and I drink it. Mother’s French, so she’s absolutely convinced that tea, chocolate, or wine is the answer to everything. I automatically raise the cup to my lips, my small, dark hands wrapped around the warm ceramic of the mug, trying to draw the warmth into myself, even while I know that I’ll never be warm again. Because what’s making me cold right now isn’t temperature, but the emotions swarming around me, inside me. I’m shutting down emotionally so that I can process things at my own pace, much the way an autistic child pulls inward.
People are talking; I can hear the voices around me, floating on the air, but can’t make out words because I can’t force the words on the air to enter my ears. It’s like listening to a conversation while I’m underwater- it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Can’t concentrate. I try to concentrate. Can’t. It hurts too much.
I burn my tongue on too hot chamomile tea. Oh. That’s what they’d been trying to tell me.
Tea sloshes over the edge of the cup into my blanket covered lap. I’m shaking. I didn’t know I was shaking until the tea spilled. Why am I shaking? Why can’t I stop?
Bad. The world is bad. Bad. Why is the world bad? Why do people kill each other? I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
My cheeks are wet. Am I crying? I am. The tears slide down, dripping off my chin, but they fall unnoticed. They ceased to exist for me as soon as I realized I was crying. I’m at that level of grief and pain where I honestly don’t know that I’m crying until I feel the tears on my skin- and now that I’ve felt them, I don’t care. They don’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing except what happened.
Why? Why did this have to happen?
My teeth are chattering, so hard it’s hurting.
Good. I’m glad something physical is hurting. I’m glad, because my heart hurts so much that it’s good to have a physical manifestation of this pain.
Cold. So cold. Cold won’t go away.
Everything is bad.
Me. I’m bad, too. I’d noticed the man following us, but hadn’t believed that he could be a threat.
Stupid.
I’d paid for that mistake.
So had Quinn.
Quinn.
Oh, God! Why Quinn? Why him? The world needs more men like Quinn, why does it insist on getting rid of one of the few good guys? Why Quinn?
The dam behind my throat breaks and all of a sudden, I’m crying, in deep, racking sobs that tear at my throat and sting my eyes and shake my whole body. I learned the difference between silent release of pain through tears and weeping. Te first was grief and guilt. This time, I’m sobbing out my grief and guilt and pain and despair. The first was negligible, and I could easily shove it aside. The second, the one happening now, consumes me, and I give myself up to it, my head spinning and my vision blurring.
Someone’s hugging me while another person is stroking my dark hair. Oh. Parents. Right. Daddy’s hugging me while Mother is hovering, doing the stroking. Daddy was always better at comfort than Mother was, but she tries.
My fault. Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault-
Blackness.
* * *
I emerge from the blackness slowly, my brain feeling like it’s wrapped in cotton.
Someone had snuck a pain killer or something into my tea. That’s the only time I get this feeling.
I ran my tongue over my teeth and grimaced at the taste.
Nope. Not a pill. Someone spiked my tea with whiskey. And I know who that someone was- Mother, in an attempt to help. I’d been too pulled in emotionally, too frozen, to notice.
But that doesn’t explain why my head feels like I took a pain killer. Unless Mother put the whiskey in, as she’s fond of doing, and Daddy tried to help with a pain pill in another cup.
Yeah, that sounds more like my parents.
I sit on my bed, wavering in indecision, not knowing what to do, hugging the stuffed rabbit Quinn gave me close as tears coursed down my cheeks and memories of tonight wash over me, dragging me down.
The ice cream parlor.
The man.
The alleyway.
The man.
The gun.
The man.
The blood.
The scream.
The death.
The shock.
Waking up in the hospital.
The police.
Being taken home.
I hug Jack tight, his velvet ears tickling my nose as I give into the darkness yet again.
* * *
Fear.
Pain.
Misery.
I curl in on myself.
No escape.
One escape.
I grip the knife tighter.
Can’t do this anymore.
Life is too hard for those left behind.
I’ve been left behind. Abandoned.
Can’t do this anymore.
Hurts too bad.
I press the blade into the sensitive flesh of my wrist. Blood wells up around the cut, turning the silver blade red, and drops of blood hit the tiled floor.
Cut up and down, not side to side.
I listen to the insidious voice, not noticing tears coursing down my cheeks.
Let it go.
New voice. Strong. Stronger than the other.
Let it go.
I let it go.
The knife clatters against the bloody tile.
* * *
I huddle in the corner of my bed, every light blazing, pillows and blankets piled around me, Jack tight in my hold.
4:47.
I can’t sleep. I’m too afraid that the voice that had prompted me in the bathroom to try to- gulp- kill myself would come back.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Which is seriously not a comforting thought.
I don’t want the voice to come back just when I let my guard down.
Trust me.
The stronger voice from before. I recognize it and find myself lashing out in anger. "Why should I trust you? You weren’t there. I asked you for help. I begged you for help. You weren’t there!"
I can feel comfort and a sense of peace surround me.
I was there in the alley. I held both of you and I welcomed Quinn. I was there. I’m here now.
I hug Jack tighter than tight as tears streak down my cheeks.
Enough of this crying. I get up and find my running shoes and start pulling them on.
It’s close enough to dawn. I’m going for a run. The door shut silently behind me and I embrace the coming morning, launching myself into motion and letting the wind kiss my face.
Faster. Gotta go faster.
Don’t think.
Just run.
Air puffs in and out of my lungs and I regulate my breathing. In, two, out, two, in, two, out, two. My breaths are timed to the slaps of my sneakers on the cement.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
You can’t run from your demons.
You can’t run from me. I’m always with you.
Run faster.
I find myself outside a church, and for some inexplicable reason, decide to go inside, sitting in the front pew, looking up at a stained glass window. It’s a picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Ten to one the verse that accompanies it is the one about having the faith of a child, and all that.
Wait a minute.
One of those kids- one of those kids looks like me when I was little.
The one that He’s holding.
I’ve always held you, Maria. Even when you didn’t want to know.
I’m shocked to my core and I find myself uttering one word, because I’m at a loss for others. "Why?"
Because I love you. You are my beloved.
I settle into the pew comfortably. “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here and I’m listening. Gotta start somewhere.”
***
Running from your demons doesn’t work. They’ll always find you.
Always.
The only way to really get rid of them is to banish them. And to do that, you have to know them by name.
I wrote out prayers, denying the demon’s entry to my apartment and rooms, once I realized that’s what the voice that encouraged me to commit suicide was. I specified in those prayers quite specifically that nothing was to come in without my knowledge or permission. I turned the prayers into artwork, using calligraphy, so that I could hang each one above the door frame and not receive weird looks from people.
It worked.
My apartment is safe. I am safe, as long as I’m in my apartment.
But I can’t stay in my apartment forever.
Things are starting to look up, starting to get better. The optimistic part of me is holding onto hope that it will last. The pessimistic part is wondering when everything will get around to falling down around me again.
Beloved, you are not trusting me yet.
I mutter under my breath, not willing to look crazy to the people around me, “I’m working on it. I’m trying to trust you. ‘I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.’ That’s where I’m at. And I don’t want to be there. So help me. Help my unbelief. I want to trust you. Help me get rid of the things keeping me from trusting."
I finish lacing up my sneakers.
Time to run.
Running is when I’m free. Running is when I’m unburdened. Running is when I’m truly herself.
When I reach my destination, I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs.
I wipe my hands on my shorts and take a deep breath. I can’t do this.
I can not do this.
I will do this.
“Come on, Maria, you can do this. You have to do this. For them. For Quinn. For yourself. Just do it.”
Just do it? Great. Now I’m channeling Michael Jordan from those old Nike commercials. With my luck, the next thing I’ll talking about is fruit of the loom.
I will my hand to rise and knock on the door.
I will myself to stay right where I am and not turn tail and run. I owe it to Quinn to face his parents.
The door opens. "Hi, Mrs. Johnson."
I’d been expecting condemnation. Instead, I found myself wrapped in a hug, while the tall, blonde woman, the mother of my dead fiancé, cried on my shoulder.
***
I need to leave. I need to start over. I need to make sure that nothing like what I’ve already been through happens ever again.
I can’t go through this again. The first time damn near killed me. Going through it again would destroy me.
If I were a strong enough person, I’d become a police officer.
But I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough- and I don’t live in the best area. Leaving the gang was hard enough, but if I became a police officer, I’d be dead, my family would be dead, inside of a week.
I need to help people.
If I were stronger, I’d become an EMT.
I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough to relive the memories that would come up every time.
But I have to help people. I have to help stop bad things from happening.
So I joined the Air Force. My parents were oh so very thrilled- meaning they weren’t- about that choice.
But I need to do it.
My things are boxed up and in Mother and Daddy’s apartment, in my old room. I have nothing, except them, holding me here. And, much as I hate to tell them, their hold on me isn’t strong enough to keep me here.
I turn my lights out for the last time and head to the airport, to go to my first station.
No turning back now.
After a typical subway trip, the check in process, the hours of waiting, I’m finally buckling my seatbelt.
Beloved, even if you go to the ends of the Earth, or beyond, you won’t lose me.
"I don’t want to lose you. I’m doing this because I have to. I couldn’t stay in New York. I had to leave."
Alaska’s not going to be far enough to run from your demons. You have to trust me.
"I trust you every day. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kept using that knife." My hand automatically moves to my wrist, wrapped around the sleeve covering the white scars against olive skin.
Wherever you go, Beloved, there am I with you.
I don’t have a response, so I settle into a comforting sleep, not waking up until the plane lands. I got out of the airplane, the airport, as fast as I could, renting a car and just driving, before finally stopping and stepping out.
I look out over the great expanse of white.
A clean slate.
That’s what I need. Pure white, clean slate.
To start over.
You already have a clean slate. I have already bought and paid for you and washed you clean and pure.
"I still don’t understand, although I’m beginning to. Why do you love me this much? Why me?"
Because. I created you. You are my beloved. I love you. Why not you? Are you the only person in the world I can not love? No. Of course not. I love you.
Sometimes "why" was the wrong question.
"Okay. I’m here. Now what?" Maybe this would be a better question.
Now you do what I continue telling you. Trust me.
I can feel myself get frustrated at hearing the same thing over and over."I am trusting you. I’ve been trusting you since the night in the bathroom. Why do you keep telling me I need to trust you?"
I feel a sigh. Maria. It is not trust when you are making decisions without asking me. The rebuke comes softly and gently.
"I’m only making the decisions myself because-" I stop suddenly as the realization hits me.
Because you are afraid I am going to abandon you.
I nod silently, ashamed.
I feel the wind touch my face, as though gentle fingers had cupped my chin. I will never leave you, never abandon you, never forsake you.
"Lord, I’m so sorry." I barely manage to stay upright on unsteady legs, to keep my knees from buckling and sending me sprawling on the snowy ground..
You are forgiven.
I start babbling my apology. "I’m sorry. I keep saying I trust you. I keep saying I’m handing the wheel over to you, that I’m giving up control and giving it to you, and then I keep taking it back."
You are forgiven.
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"I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not really trusting you. I’m sorry."
Let it go. The command came gently but firmly.
I stop.
I let it go.
I cast my fears and doubts and sorrow to the wind, and let them all fall to the ice and shatter.
The land around me is an infinite expanse of white, of purity. The feeling surrounding me right now is infinite love. It’s not just surrounding me now, though. It always surrounds me, always wraps around me with the comfort of a warm and much loved blanket.
Not a smothering love. Just holding me, holding me close, holding me gently.
Always loving.
"I don’t understand." My voice comes out in a whisper, and I can feel my eyes tearing up at the wonder of it all. "I don’t understand why you love me. I know I don’t deserve it."
Beloved, all fall short of perfection. No one deserves it. But I love you anyway.
Suddenly, it clicked for me.
God is love.
Simple.
So simple.
God is love in it’s purest form. A love so pure and simple it’s beyond comprehension. He couldn’t not love one of his creations without denying Himself.
God is love.
