There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.
Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.
It's never right to give up on someone.
We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.
Momentum,' She repeats. 'You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.
Love unrequited is violent. He loves you so much that he's turned it into hate.
No matter how lonely it makes me, and no matter how wide and horrific the loneliness, at least I remember who I am.
He kissed back, all the pages spread out around us like riddles waiting to be solved. Let them wait. Let my genes unravel, my hinges come loose. If my fate rests in the hands of a madman, let death come and bring its worse. I'll take the ruined craters of laboratories, the dead trees, this city with ashes in the oxygen, if it means freedom. I'd sooner die here than live a hundred years with wires in my veins.
When we were first married, I thought he must have been the most heartless, hateful man I'd ever known, but he was just as much a prisonor as I was. Where Vaughn imprisoned me with walls, he imprisoned his son with ignorance.
He says one word, nodding into the daylight. "Look." It's an astounding word. It's a gift.
Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.
I want to make the world into something better so that he can be okay.
It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.
I lost everyone I loved," I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, "The day I met you.
So how long do you think it’ll be?” he says. “Before the next hurricane comes along to take you home.” “Can I tell you my biggest fear?” I say. “Yes. Tell me.” “That it will be a very windless four years.
Did you tell freedom hello for me?
Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.
Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
When we're alive, life consumes us. But when we die, all of the color and the motion is gone so quickly, it's as though it can no longer stand to be wasted on us.
It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says; "We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls." "There are always walls." I say.
I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.
Every star has been set in the sky. We mistakenly think they were put there for us.
There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.
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