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You've been captive for so long that you don't even realize you want freedom anymore.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 39
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Long
Captive
Captives
Anymore
Realize
Realizing
Freedom
Even

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I used to have only one name it used to mean something.
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Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.
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It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.
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I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.
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Words like 'unputdownable' and 'irresistible' are simply not enough for Cat Winters's In the Shadow of Blackbirds. Days after finishing this story, it remains the first thought I have in the morning, and the thing that haunts me until I sleep.
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I lost everyone I loved, I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, The day I met you.
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He sits next to me, careful to avoid my hair that's splayed out around my head like blood. A bullet to the forehead, boom, blond waves everywhere.
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There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.
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There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.
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I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.
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We'll squeeze every second that we can from our lives, because we're young, and we have plenty of years to grow. We'll grow until we're braver. We'll grow until our bones ache and our skin wrinkles and our hair goes white, and until our hearts decide, at last, that it's time to stop.
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I figured it out eventually, she says. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney again her features slowly materialize as my vision clears. It's momentum. What? I whisper. The feeling returning to my lips, spreading out to my fingertips and toes. Momentum, she repeats. You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have
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None of the wives mention the security guards by the door, who will probably tackle us to the ground if we try to leave without our husbands.
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It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
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