Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
I feel strange...I really don't know what I am. In mind I'm almost a woman, in body a young woman. I am almost a woman, but what am I now? I'm no child. I am mature. I know much; I'm somewhere in between. I'm confused--that's what I am. One day I'll long for a baby in my arms or a man's strong arms to hold me...the next, for freedom, respect.
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I feel strange...I really don't know what I am. In mind I'm almost a woman, in body a young woman. I am almost a woman, but what am I now? I'm no child. I am mature. I know much; I'm somewhere in between. I'm confused--that's what I am. One day I'll long for a baby in my arms or a man's strong arms to hold me...the next, for freedom, respect.
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I was crying for the little girl I had been, who had withstood terrifying nightmares of death and blood and war and maiming. And when I had tried to share those horrors, the shock on my friends' faces had told me I was not normal, and I should keep my dreams to myself.
Growth of consciousness does not depend on the might of the intellect but on the conviction of the heart.
For as long as I could remember, I had been transparent to myself, unselfconscious, learning, doing, most of every day. Now I was in my own way; I myself was a dark object I could not ignore. I couldn't remember how to forget myself. I didn't want to think about myself, to reckon myself in, to deal with myself every livelong minute on top of everything else - but swerve as I might, I couldn't avoid it. I was a boulder blocking my own path. I was a dog barking between my own ears, a barking dog who wouldn't hush. So this was adolescence. Is this how the people around me had died on their feet - inevitably, helplessly? Perhaps their own selves eclipsed the sun for so many years the world shriveled around them, and when at least their inescapable orbits had passed through these dark egoistic years it was too late, they had adjusted. Must I then lose the world forever, that I had so loved? Was it all, the whole bright and various planet, where I had been so ardent about finding myself alive, only a passion peculiar to children, that I would outgrow even against my will?
When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
Jez had gone from an evil twin to a sweet, even angelic, girl, all in less than a minute.