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She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Forgiving
Dead
Left
Going
Conned
Ruined
Forgive
Spite
Soldier

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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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And everywhere girls, tumbling from trees like orange blossoms and hitting the earth with sickening thuds. They crack open.
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She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.
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Set fire to the broken pieces start anew.
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There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.
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The only characters I ever don't like are ones that leave no impression on me. And I don't write characters that leave no impression on me.
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It's never right to give up on someone.
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I'm suddenly finding it hard to know the difference between nightmares and consciousness.
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So many of the things I've wanted are the things I've been taught to fear.
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Don't you miss it? I say. Being free. He laughs.
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Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.
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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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Momentum,' She repeats. 'You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have to run.
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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.
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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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Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
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Someday I'll tell you all of it, I say. I'd like that, he says. No, I say. I promise you won't.
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Most dystopian, classic and contemporary, paints a future world that puts a twist on present society - a future world that could plausibly happen.
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Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.
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