born darkly darkly madly duet 1 trisha wolfe

I press my fingers into my kneecap behind the witness stand. Magnified for the courtroom, the projected image displays the charred remains of a woman’s mutilated body. Noble, can you tell us what the culprit was thinking when he did this?” The lawyer points to a projection screen along the courthouse wall. I teeter on the rock, bare feet gripping the serrated edge of stone, as I reach for the first key. A scream wrenched from an abyss of never-ending pain. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.Ī wail rips through the canopy, and I can feel the agony in the gutturalness of it. In my profession, your past can be as damning as a wrong diagnosis. In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone. Sweat leaks into their corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.Ī canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string-a blanket woven of blood in the sky. I stare at the tattooed key on my flesh until my eyes blur. I use my thumb to smudge off the dirt that perspiration hasn’t completely sweated away, revealing the faded black ink along the side of my palm. The ugly beveled grooves from wrapping my fingers with string over the years. Never once acknowledging their beauty and strength-those precious instruments that enable us to do almost anything.

We pluck and tug at our face, cursing the years. Fondle our fat, loathing our bodies, especially women. Taken for granted, our hands don’t get the attention and recognition they deserve.

What madness is it to be expecting evil before it comes. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Born darkly darkly madly duet 1 trisha wolfe