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Good night, sweetheart, he says. Good bye, sweetheart, I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Suspect
Suspects
Innocent
Says
Doesn
Night
Bye
Thing
Sweetheart
Good
Casual

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When I was 11 or 12, I was really bored with everything on my summer reading list. It was all happy, middle-grade kinds of books. I was getting frustrated, because I liked to read. My mother went to the library and got me a copy of 'The Other Side of Midnight' by Sidney Sheldon. It was my first adult book.
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I've done it all before, I tell myself, and I can do it again. Trust is the strongest weapon.
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You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.
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Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.
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The thing about hope is that it doesn't go away even when it serves no purpose.
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Tell freedom I said hello.
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Humans are the absolute worst thing to happen to this planet.
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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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Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.
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You’re insane, you know that?” he says. “It’s the only thing keeping me afloat,” I say.
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But I know all the things you're too sweet to know.
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Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.
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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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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 limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.
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When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head I don't try to write a parable or make a point.
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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 always knew I was an excellent liar I just didn't know that I had it in me to fool myself.
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The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.
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Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
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