(Preview)
"So you admit to seducing me?" Elijah whispered against my neck.
He snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me closer. His soft lips brushed against my neck, goosebumps began to coat my skin. I screwed my eyes shut and bit my lip.
I suck...
As I gazed into those captivating amber eyes, my petite figure was enveloped in a cascade of blonde curls that tumbled delicately around my fair, freckled face.
With a deep breath, I shrugged off my robe, revealing the raw vulnerability of my nakedness. My fingers traced the faint outlines of the scars that criss-crossed my body - the ugly remnants of a childhood lived in terror at the hands of those who were meant to love and protect me.
As I stood there, my heart heavy with the weight of my past, I whispered a prayer for all the innocent children who, like me, had suffered such unspeakable agony.
Misunderstood and shattered, no one can truly fathom the depth of my pain. They, both of them, are the architects of my brokenness. I spent an eternity trying to please them, but all I received in return was a gnawing sense of inadequacy. My tears were the only constant companion in a life that constantly let me down. Perhaps I was strong for hiding my despair, but that strength only came from knowing I had no one but myself. I've reached the end of my tether, having weathered countless storms that have stripped me of all I had to offer.
Thoughtfully, my gaze finds its way to the perfect embodiment of my essence - a sunset moth etched into my skin.
Moths have always held a place of fascination in my heart, the embodiment of metamorphosis and an eternal pursuit towards light. In a strange way, I see myself in them.
As a youngling, my peers scorned me mercilessly for my fascination with moths. But their backwards thinking and ignorance were no match for my resilient spirit. Already scarred from the tumultuous childhood my parents had bequeathed me, I refused to let a pack of six-year-olds trample over my sense of self like a forgotten doormat.
My gaze drifted over to the gentle markings on my posterior, resembling bits of watercolor on a canvas. Once a source of shame, now a badge of honor. Every spot, scratch, and inked line on my body tells a tale of triumph and survival.
I luxuriate under the stream of a grandiose shower, sandblasted by steam and the therapeutic power of hot water. My muscles release their pent-up tension, melting beneath the soothing heat.
With a flick of my wrist, I shut my eyes and let the water wash over my face, my mind drifting away to Elizabeth. Who could she be engaged to? A Hollywood heartthrob, perhaps, or a chart-topping diva?
