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The people we care for aren't always the one we should

Lucy Christopher

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Lucy Christopher
Age: 54
Author
Writer
WAL
Aren
Care
Always
People

More quotes by Lucy Christopher

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Far, far away something made a single ghostly howl, like a banshee in the dark.
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I didn’t look back, but I knew you were still watching. It probably sounds weird, but I could just feel it. The hairs on my neck bristled when you blinked.
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The land wants you here. I want you here, you called. Don't you care about that at all?
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If there'd been an astronaut on the moon right then, I'm sure I could have seen him. Perhaps he could have looked down and seen me too... the only one who could.
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It was so big, that view. I’ll never remember it properly. How can anyone remember something that big? I don’t think people’s brains are designed for memories like that. They’re designed for things like phone numbers, or the color of someone’s hair. Not hugeness.
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How would she find her herd? How would she find you?
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Doesn't that hurt? I said. Yep. How do you keep them in there? I'm stubborn. You grinned. Stubborn as a waddywood. And anyway, pain means it's healing. Not always.
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I want you to see that the person I glimpsed running beside the camel, running to save my life, is the person you can choose to be.
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You nodded towards the cup. Want more? I shook my head. What about the car? Didn't find it. You were heading back towards me when I found you. Towards . . . ? You nodded. So I reckoned the car had probably got stuck or died somehow, and you were just coming home. Home? Yeah. Your mouth twitched. Back to me.
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I remember that feeling of skin. It's strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.
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But what else can I do, other than to plead with you like this? Other than to write down my story, our story, to show you that what you've done . . . to make you realize that what you did wasn't fair, wasn't right.
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I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.
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You won't be able to hurt me, or touch me.
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In a moment, when I'm ready, I will turn off this computer and that will be it. This letter will be finished. A part of me doesn't want to stop writing to you, but I need to. For both of us.
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I remember the lights turning into blurs of blazing fire. I remember the air-conditioning chilling my arms. The smell of coffee smudging into the smell of eucalyptus.
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I chased money, pretended to be someone else to get it. It got easier the longer I did it... but that's the trap, see? When the deadness gets easier, you know you're sinking deeper, becoming dead yourself.
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It was like I’d stepped out into an afterlife. Only there were no angels.
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The sand stretched out gray and ghostlike and illuminated, a column of light leading forward. It was like something a dead person would see, a tunnel leading toward heaven.
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I was surprised at her gentleness, her willingness to give in.
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It happened like this. I was stolen from an airport. Taken from everything I knew, everything I was used to. Taken to sand and heat, dirt and danger. And he expected me to love him. This is my story. A letter from nowhere.
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