One and only warning: This book contains religion, catholic guilt, sex addiction, drug abuse, graphic sexual content and heavy violence. Read at your own discretion.
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"I am a priest, Anna. A child of god. You are a temptation," He whispered out, h...
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I was staring down the slim shaft of a gun, pointed directly at the woman I'd fallen in love with. Nothing could describe the feeling I had as my finger put pressure on the trigger. Nobody could tell from the blood coating my skin, but I was sweating. I couldn't tell my sweat from my tears. I was sure that nobody could really tell.
The torture I endured, the pain, I could feel my back starting to numb and my lips doing the same. I was foolish in drinking the liquid that was in the small vial, but it was a chance perhaps I was willing to take. As if my legs were doing a good job in carrying myself, I could barely stand on my own; the stinging feeling in my back prior was something I'd only felt once in my life, never more.
Yet, I was put through it again. How original of them, I thought. I didn't know what to make of it, but it brought back the memory of my first lashings. I was not myself, no, but the scared boy that cried each time I was hit. Not so little, but still, a boy. Young enough to know I didn't deserve it. Old enough to know it wasn't right.
Survival...it is a test. A test of who you are and what you are willing to do to survive. I've played this game many times, and while I didn't find myself surviving on substance, but rather surviving to feed the craving for those substances. No matter how one sees it, that is survival.
We all survive in our different ways, in different times, and maybe some priorities are different than others, but still; we strive to survive and will continue to do so. One person may strive to pay their bills, others may strive to feed their children, and some strive to just keep themselves alive. Keep their heads high.
It is all a mental game in the end. Survival. To see how much you are willing to carry the load until you fall to your knees and find yourself reaching out and begging someone for help. Of course it is never a bad thing to ask for someone for help, and maybe there were a few times where I should've asked for help no matter how proud I may be, but I know that now.
I know that now, not only is survival a mental game, but it is physical. And not only is it that, but surviving is loving. It is loving. So much hate in a person's heart can make them ignorant and ultimately lead to their downfall, yet those who love, those who have had their hearts torn to bits, those people are the ones that survived.
And so I stood there, surviving in the only way I knew how. Feeling the pressure of a hand on my wounded shoulder and a gun pressed to the back of my bleeding head. I stood and watched as Anna begged for her life, as she wept and held herself; held her stomach. The gun pointed at her because it was only ever about wanting to live.
When I closed my eyes, I only ever thought of her and my unborn child. I thought about our future together that slipped through my fingers, that turned into tiny specks of dust and wisped away in the wind. Then, I thought about how much I loved her, and how I would never get to see her smile ever again. I'd never get to hear her laugh, nor would I hear her voice. The smell of her in the sheets, or the way she drew her fingers down my back, or her honeysuckle eyes that shined in pools of just that in the light.
