ya

I have always been fascinated by the ocean, to dip a limb beneath its surface and know that I'm touching eternity, that it goes on forever until it begins here again.

Fix me," I commanded him. "This thing, what I've done- there's something wrong with me, Noah. Fix it."Noah's expression broke my heart as he brushed my hair from my face and skimmed the line of my neck. "I can't.""Why not?" I asked, my voice threatening to crack.Noah lifted both his hands to my face, and held it. "Because," he said, "you aren't broken.

...Life had handed me a different set of cards and I was going to have to play my hand either way.

Remember Whose You Are.

Marika could feel herself cocking the trigger of a loaded gun and pointing it at herself, because the truth could be too shocking a revelation, something that would shake their lives to the core... but lies were just a dead-end alleyway that offered no way out.

There are tales that rise like the early sun, breathe, and take on a life of their own. There are ones that flow quietly and effortlessly until time forsakes them, but there are others that fight until they find their way to the edge of reality, as if coming straight out of a dream.

Her heart was telling her to trust him, but it wouldn__ be the first time that that foolish muscle, there in the middle of her chest, had betrayed her.

He wishes he could remember everything. Anything. He doesn__ sense a bone in his body that can feel compassion or worthiness. Self-pity hides away as well, the lowest form of emotion not even capable of resting in his wrecked mind.

I shut up. I don't fight, I don't scream. Shame rides alongside my terror. But somewhere deep, deep inside, I hear Mom tell me to trust my gut. My gut tells me I am blind and I am lost, and if I fought for freedom now, it would end in my death. I listen to my gut. Because I want to live.

I couldn't believe it had taken me all these years to see this side of him. He tucked himself inside a shell, shutting himself away from others here because the palace had trapped him. Behind the books and the snippy remarks there was a curious, engaging, and sometimes very charming person.

Freedom is a state of mind.

He looks up and up and up to get to her face. His mama's a tall lady, and he's only seven. He's overwhelmed by red. Red heels, red nails, red lips, red hair, red eyes. So help him, the boy has always thought his mama's copper-colored eyes damn near shined red. He looks into those eyes and knows she's come home funny.

I know you, Ruth Ann Carver. I know you better than you know yourself. You think you do things right. You think you're a paragon of right living. This is a self-told lie, one bolstered by your coddling parents and grandparents.

It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication with death listed as a possible side effect.

Through the red haze of my blood I see a strange expression on his face. His eyes have come alive, and I don't like it at all. He's getting off on this now in a way he wasn't before. My first thought is that my honesty is feeding him in a bad, bad way and my second thought is not to question my gut."These are going to be very good days," he says to me.

My one true love remains my self... I dump myself occasionally to keep it interesting

I will not be a victim. I will not think like a victim. I am going to avenge all those little girls. I am going to win.

Can you even have human nature if you don__ have the capacity to feel?_ I ask. __o you mean on some kind of existentialist __hat are we if not the things we feel_ kind of way?_ I don__ know what he means by existentialist. I say as much. He laughs. I entertain the idea of stabbing him for several minutes.