THANK YOU BECKY FOR YOUR WONDERFUL HELP AND EXCELLENT AUTHORESS POWERS THAT YOU HAVE ALLOWED ME TO USE!!!!!!! THIS CHAPTER WOULD HAVE BEEN COMPLETELY HORRIBLE AND USELESS WITHOUT IT BECAUSE OTHERWISE I WOULD HAVE JUST SPEWED CRAP. save yourself from the t-rex~


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Open Wounds

January 14

The scars don't heal like they used to. They remain open to the air and bleeding…forever bleeding. Scabs don't form, new skin isn't created, and the memory of the original pain — the first pain — plagues my blood like a poison. It will forever flow through my veins, replenishing and revitalizing itself whenever it siphons past the wound, never weakening or fading away. It can be forgotten for a time…Oh yes, pushed to the very back of the dustiest, most deserted corner of my mind. But forgotten completely? Never. It is always there, like a dull ache at the base of my skull that can't be cured by a medical miracle. I can never get away. It's ever nagging, ever present. I can never get away.

You know, they say that phoenixes are reborn out of their own ashes; that when they die, their bodies are consumed by flames but their souls are infused into another baby phoenix. Their tears have healing powers; their melodious songs have the ability to lift up any soul and give heart and wordless counsel to any who need it. They are immortal. They are said to be the wisest and most loyal birds ever to grace this Earth, mythologically or in actuality.

But what if they're never reborn?

What if they never achieve that stage of being?

What if they spent all eternity getting hurt over and over again, the previous wound healing just enough so that the next blow wouldn't be the last, bringing them to the brink of destruction yet again? What if they spent all of eternity bleeding?

Because that's what I am.

A bleeding phoenix.

I am the only phoenix ever known that simply cannot be reborn.

The reason?

I have been stabbed in the back in the one place where — no matter to what angle I turn my head — my tears cannot reach the wound. And I am voiceless. My torment is known to no one but myself.

Perhaps that is the most painful of all.

She feels the tears sting her eyes as she reads this. She doesn't know why she is, doesn't understand herself at all. What the hell are you doing Sydney??? She still can't exactly explain what made her go hunting through her cabinet until she found the worn shoebox again.

What made her take out her tightly locked blue cloth journal that was frowned upon by everyone in the spy business. It was never smart to keep a diary. But she had to let it out. And what she had to tell didn't involve government secrets. So she had rifled through her sock drawer until the tiny key came into contact with her hands. With it, she opened the book, completely empty except for one single page.

Full of words.

Words smeared with tears, words pressed so hard into the paper that it created indentations on the other sheets, words crossed out angrily, replaced with others, words written in different color ink because she got tired at looking at black, all words that she wrote thinking like an English student and not as a real person.

Her eyes watered as she took in her writing. It had good flow. It did indeed portray her emotions in a way she felt would reach an audience. The style was clear, concise, and had examples from other texts, histories, and mythology. Written as if the author were penning a story. Not like a person with a broken heart. Even she could see how inhuman this depiction of her seemed.

She had been looking for closure. As if reaffirming her anger at Michael Vaughn would be the equivalent of giving herself a blessing. A green light. It had been so long since she had consciously decided to open up her heart and allow a person a chance at possessing it that she wasn't sure what to do.

She flips through the rest of the book, staring at the empty pages as if willing them to fill up with something that could serve as a sign.

A sign for what she doesn't know.

God knows she doesn't deserve love. Not when the only thing that will ultimately occur, whether she means it or not, will be its destruction.

To hell with it.

She doesn't want to be one of those old ladies that scowl at children playing soccer in the street. One of those ladies who creak in their rocking chairs alone in their gloomy rooms while stroking their ancient poodles or Siamese cats.

She wants someone to be with her when this was all over and when the damage was done. Someone to hold her hand and help her through whatever is to become of her life. And if it doesn't work out, well, she would be right here again.

She picks up a pen from her bed table and smooths out a page in the journal.

April 7

I will no longer look over my shoulder in an attempt to both stare down the demons that continually follow me and run from them. My life is what I have chosen it to be. Que sera sera.

If it feels right, it will be made right.

She falters. The words are ugly. Badly-written. Not what she wants to say at all. She is retreating into the prose that she fights against. No more flowery words.

With large, broad strokes, she marks a large X on the words.

And starts again.

The Beginning- for nothing else- no date, no time, no place- matters

Peoplesay I bleed.
Peoplesay I need to confide.
Peoplesay I'm hiding.
Peoplesay they can help heal me. Stop my bleeding, let me scar, and start over.

Peoplesay may not be God.

But I am beginning to believe what peoplesay.




tbc…

yes I know it's really short but oh well… it's also out 5+ hours earlier than I said it would be


more?