She ran her hands through her already tousled hair and mahogany curls fell back into her face to soak up the salty remnants of her last wave of grief.
It seemed no one cared about her happiness, overlooking each small injury they inflicted, and pushing her on down the path. Everyone wanted her to be sucessful so that they could go along for the ride on her coattails.
"Maddy you've got talent and a gift and you'll have a profound impact on those who read your work."
Encouragement felt like pressure. If you don't publish, you are a failure. If you can't find the words to set the world alight, I won't love you anymore.
Again she pulled the hair out of her face. Talents and gifts aside she, felt herself die--not in a tangible way that can be easily explained or described in some long monologue constructed for cathartic heroin. It was her heart that perished. That small part of herself Maddy had held back all these years, held in faith, died that day.
I can't write about love anymore. I can't write about something I no longer believe in. I can't write these stories about hope, because I've lost my voice. I've lost my hope. I've lost my love. I lost... I am lost...
Maddy cried into her shaking hands.
I'm broken in some irrepairable way. All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this back together again.
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