Her Broken wing

She could hear a scream. It would take some time before she realized it was her own shriek coming from the deep throes of her soul. Even now, she can still hear the sound in her sleep, in her dreams and in her waking hours.She hoped that she would soon wake up from this dreadful nightmare.

　She was not aware of how much time had passed before she felt a sudden thrust backwards. Life had grabbed her with such force it knocked her off her feet. She fell as she watched her life unveil itself. Soon, the streets were a haziness of red and blue lights. Voices were nothing more than echo’s in her head. She was paralyzed.

I sit back and wonder “How could she?” or anyone for that matter do something so horrible. But slowly, I think back to the time when I…

Was…

… am no different.

I have my moments of sheer terror and times in my life where time literally stopped. The world became surreal as I wondered how others could continue to go on about life in the midst of my pain.

It does not matter whether I caused it or “it” was a happen-chance, the result was always the same.

I look into the stories of your life and literally thrive off your pain– Yet, disconnect in my anguish. I was too afraid to veer into my life . To view your life, kept me at a safe distance from any pain.

Why don’t people stop and help others? Plenty cease what they are doing to stare and gawk. This only drives the sorrow of where I was— “Alone” to a greater depth.

There is a dark side to all of us. The touch of sadness is like touching my toes into the arctic water, it only gives me taste of that which is beyond my comprehension, pain and fear.

In this story, whether the boy lives or dies is irrelevant because we all have stories where he lives and dies. There will be some of us that will be disappointed and let down if he does not die and make this story even greater than it is. Yes, but most will not admit it. The dark side of our soul that wants to know we will survive the worst in life. So seeing it through the eyes of another, we can grasp something tangible.

I know that God says I will not have all the answers on this side of Heaven. Why does the addict live and the innocent die?

Maybe I am the innocent child, brushed by addiction, called to a higher plan.

Christ–He is my Light in the darkest places and shadows of my past.

Beautifully Awkward

This entry was posted on December 4, 2010 at 11:10 am and is filed under Uncategorized with tags Hope, Identity, shortstory, Victory. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.