Healing Wounds

For being no man’s land, neither Faith nor Autumn had felt pain like the magnitude of the courtroom’s fiasco. Either this wasn’t any kind of shameful sentence at all, or the instinct to survive had taken precedence over sensations like pain and suffering. It’s true, that there had not been equal parts of running away and actually dealing with the half real, half virtual reality of heartstring aftermath.

“How you doin, Girl.” She’d asked, during their rest at enough distance to place the kingdom on a sun-setting horizon line.

I didn’t know. There was no whirl of police lights at every revolting domestic run-in; there were no fragile, mislead siblings chiming in with their two cents on who I must be and what I deserved. I don’t see any custody battles – hell, I haven’t run into any children, yet. Everyone must be thinking for themselves in these parts, or agreeing to something on the whole. Because here we are, getting lost in a world full of every personal, social and political issue punishable by death back on royal grounds, and all I can think is how phenomenally quiet it is, out here.

“You can sleep in the ocean with your beautiful secret for as long as it is darker, the deeper it gets.” Two-thousand and one, to quote a line from those late nights sitting up, typing cryptic clues to the disaster beneath my skin for any person to find. By that time, I’d started to open my mouth and swallow the whole thing up; I had learned to stay alive with it in my heart and my lungs.


9 responses to “Healing Wounds

    • :D I know.

      Isn’t that crazy?! Everyone in the scenario has my sympathy – the sister, a little more than everyone else.

      I know that no family really has it all together, but geeze. Talk about being all over the place.

      I wanna think about happy things, now.

      • Pretty good you nube, you.

        I just saw Passion and am about to fall into bed. My friend stepped on my heel and ripped the soul from the actual shoe…

        might make it into some kind of proverb.

      • Jesus was basically this pulpy, bleeding blob suffering in front of you for 2 hours or so.

        Once you’re over the whole “jesus getting flesh ripped off/scenes of satan slinking around” edge, it’s really no big deal. I’m worried about all the soft shoes walking in and seeing that kind of abuse, though — a lot of Christians haven’t been exposed to the kinds of torture that humans cause other humans. It’s really gonna shake em up.

        It was the detailed, gory stumble to crucifixion, with backflash blurbs of the supper, blah blah blah. Mel had the whole matty, bleeding head+caked with layered flesh+bones/rips showing/thing going on – telling it like a lot of people don’t think to realize it.

        I thought maybe there’d be some hanging intestines, but. Nope.

        The spear through the side was intense, though.

    • They already know – I’ve basically said everything they logged, first.

      If I so much as think about the farce my mysterious past became, it makes me want to puke.

      I really don’t have anything weighing me down, now. Is it sick, to feel shallow because of this? I mean…there just aren’t any more reasons to be riddled. Maybe I should go murder someone and bury the body… you know? Replace it with a real good dark secret so I can be all mysteriously tortured again.

      Who comes in like some clown and shits up my intricate enigma like that?!? I guess I’ll take “a joke” over “an underlying psychosis influencing the actions I took or did not take in life”. Dammit.

      Looks like I need a new hook.

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