No, you will never been tamed, you are a monster, the eternal wild one. I often wonder where you came from, only someone with something to hide has such a cloudy beginnings. Who are you? Or more importantly who were you? There is only the odd bits that are known about you and nothing is set in stone. Do you even know the real you behind the charade? The fact that you are aroused by virginity, is a worrying fascination. I would not be surprised if the person who turned you realised what a monster he'd created. They were not called Frankenstein by any chance? Maybe you are a creature of many parts? Did you destroy your creator as well in a fit of rage? Is that why your are always looking for your virgin bride? Only you take beautiful swans and turn them into ugly ducklings. You will never return to that life that you give up. Stop trying to recreate them.
You__e angry at me,_ she says.I stop crying at once. My whole body goes cold and still. She squats down beside me, and even though I__ careful not to look up, not to look at her at all, I can feel her, can smell the sweat from her skin and hear the ragged pattern of her breathing.__ou__e angry at me,_ she repeats, and her voice hitches a little. __ou think I don__ care.__er voice is the same. For years I used to imagine that voice lilting over those forbidden words: I love you. Remember. They cannot take it. Her last words to me before she went away.She shuffles forward and squats next to me. She hesitates, then reaches out and places her palm against my cheek, and turns my head toward hers so I__ forced to look at her. I can feel the calluses on her fingers.In her eyes, I see myself reflected in miniature, and I tunnel back to a time before she left, before I believed she was gone forever, when her eyes welcomed me into every day and shepherded me, every night, into sleep.__ou turned out even more beautiful than I__ imagined,_ she whispers. She, too, is crying.The hard casement inside me breaks.__hy?_ is the only word that comes. Without intending to or even thinking about it, I allow her to draw me against her chest, let her wrap her arms around me. I cry into the space between her collarbones, inhaling the still-familiar smell of her skin.There are so many things I need to ask her: What happened to you in the Crypts? How could you let them take you away? Where did you go? But all I can say is: __hy didn__ you come for me? After all those years__ll that time__hy didn__ you come?_ Then I can__ speak at all; my sobs become shudders.__hhh._ She presses her lips to my forehead, strokes my hair, just like she used to when I was a child. I am a baby once again in her arms__elpless and needy. ____ here now.__he rubs my back while I cry. Slowly, I feel the darkness drain out of me, as though pulled away by the motion of her hand. Finally I can breathe again. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels raw and sore. I draw away from her, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand, not even caring that my nose is running. I__ suddenly exhausted__oo tired to be hurt, too tired to be angry. I want to sleep, and sleep.__ never stopped thinking about you,_ my mother says. __ thought of you every day__ou and Rachel.
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You__e angry at me,_ she says.I stop crying at once. My whole body goes cold and still. She squats down beside me, and even though I__ careful not to look up, not to look at her at all, I can feel her, can smell the sweat from her skin and hear the ragged pattern of her breathing.__ou__e angry at me,_ she repeats, and her voice hitches a little. __ou think I don__ care.__er voice is the same. For years I used to imagine that voice lilting over those forbidden words: I love you. Remember. They cannot take it. Her last words to me before she went away.She shuffles forward and squats next to me. She hesitates, then reaches out and places her palm against my cheek, and turns my head toward hers so I__ forced to look at her. I can feel the calluses on her fingers.In her eyes, I see myself reflected in miniature, and I tunnel back to a time before she left, before I believed she was gone forever, when her eyes welcomed me into every day and shepherded me, every night, into sleep.__ou turned out even more beautiful than I__ imagined,_ she whispers. She, too, is crying.The hard casement inside me breaks.__hy?_ is the only word that comes. Without intending to or even thinking about it, I allow her to draw me against her chest, let her wrap her arms around me. I cry into the space between her collarbones, inhaling the still-familiar smell of her skin.There are so many things I need to ask her: What happened to you in the Crypts? How could you let them take you away? Where did you go? But all I can say is: __hy didn__ you come for me? After all those years__ll that time__hy didn__ you come?_ Then I can__ speak at all; my sobs become shudders.__hhh._ She presses her lips to my forehead, strokes my hair, just like she used to when I was a child. I am a baby once again in her arms__elpless and needy. ____ here now.__he rubs my back while I cry. Slowly, I feel the darkness drain out of me, as though pulled away by the motion of her hand. Finally I can breathe again. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels raw and sore. I draw away from her, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand, not even caring that my nose is running. I__ suddenly exhausted__oo tired to be hurt, too tired to be angry. I want to sleep, and sleep.__ never stopped thinking about you,_ my mother says. __ thought of you every day__ou and Rachel.
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Day leans in toward me. He reaches up to touch my face. I can tell it still hurts him to use his fingers, and his nails are dark with dried blood. "You're brilliant," he says. "But you're a fool to stay wish someone like me."I close my eyes at the touch of his hand. "Then we're both fools.
I'm not leaving until you stop crying" he stated pulling me down so we were now laying on my bed facing each other
Now you see. We are all fugitives. We have always been fugitives from the void. Whatever comfort, whatever power we gain from outside of ourselves diminishes us -- because comfort and power, unless they are won from the void inside of us, are illusions that make us forget the emptyness that carries us. When we forget that, we believe we deserve comfort and power and so are capable of any evil. We deserve nothing but what we make of ourselves. We deserve nothing else. And when we understand that, then nothing is enough.
When a person denies his conscience for too long, it can become seared. That person becomes susceptible to receiving and accepting all sorts of harmful and evil things. This is true for both believers and unbelievers. A seared conscience will open a person up to demonic spirits and activities.
Because I think you're right. You can make a difference." He told me experiences were kind of like fate, and fate usually came in the form of a test. He told me fate liked to be worshiped. It liked to see us fall on out knees before it offered to help us up..." _