Appetite For Innocence Quotes

You know what’s really, powerfully sexy? A sense of humor. A taste for adventure. A healthy glow. Hips to grab on to. Openness. Confidence. Humility. Appetite. Intuition. … Smart-ass comebacks. Presence. A quick wit. Dirty jokes told by an innocent-looking lady. … A storyteller. A genius. A doctor. A new mother. A woman who realizes how beautiful she is.

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, "Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we'll make it right." The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child's need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting lollipop or a toy bear'd worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skull for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty: lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites. Looking about him, he honoured his own past, and mourned for it. After all, there was good in the old ways.

What distinguishes man from his innocent brothers, the animals,...is not language, nor reason, nor even civilization...it is man's enormous appetite for suffering.

In these early anonymous seasons, God graciously grants us the opportunity to wrestle with our appetites before other lives are at stake, to struggle with our passions privately before moral collapse affects the innocent publicly.

When kids go through trauma, they do incredible things to survive their situation. Sometimes it means their brains create different stories and other realities to help them cope, elaborate fantasies to make something horrible make sense.

I didn’t want to die, at least I don’t think so. I just didn’t want to feel anything. Everything was just too heavy.

He loves this food that contains no disgusting proofs of slain animals, no bloody slab of cow haunch or hen’s sinewy skeleton; these ghosts have been minced and destroyed and painlessly merged with the shapes of mute vegetables, plump green bodies that invite his appetite’s innocent gusto.

Given the deeply rooted Christian suspicion of sexuality, however, the new view of women as intrinsically asexual improved their reputation. Whereas women had once been considered snares of the devil, they were now viewed as sexual innocents whose purity should inspire all decent men to control their own sexual impulses and baser appetites.

I’m not a victim. I’m special. He told me that many times.

I used to think the world was a good place. Now I know it was only a fairytale. Bad things happen and they happen all the time. They’re everywhere. You can’t stop them.

The Chinese food arrives. Delicious saliva fills his mouth. He really hasn’t had any since Texas. He loves this food that contains no disgusting proofs of slain animals, a bloody slab of cow haunch, a hen’s sinewy skeleton; these ghosts have been minced and destroyed and painlessly merged with the shapes of insensate vegetables, plump green bodies that invite his appetite’s innocent gusto. Candy. Heaped on a smoking breast of rice. Each is given such a tidy hot breast, and Margaret is in a special hurry to muddle hers with glazed chunks; all eat well. Their faces take color and strength from the oval plates of dark pork, sugar peas, chicken, stiff sweet sauce, shrimp, water chestnuts, who knows what else. Their talk grows hearty.

In a society that has fallen prey to anarchy the voracious appetite for persecution feeds on victims indiscriminately, as long as they are weak and vulnerable. The least pretext is enough. No one really cares about the guilt or innocence of the victim.

Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life. But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery. There were a hundred million tickets in his lottery, and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedly against him. When he thought of Ellen Olenska it was abstractly, serenely, as one might think of some imaginary beloved in a book or a picture: she had become the composite vision of all that he had missed. That vision, faint and tenuous as it was, had kept him from thinking of other women. He had been what was called a faithful husband; and when May had suddenly died—carried off by the infectious pneumonia through which she had nursed their youngest child—he had honestly mourned her. Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty: lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites. Looking about him, he honoured his own past, and mourned for it. After all, there was good in the old ways.

Wise rulers do not accumulate treasures, but seek to quiet the hearts of their people. They soothe the people’s appetites and strengthen their bones. They treasure innocence, and protect the simple from the schemes of the clever. When a ruler practices restraint, everything will be in peace.

A firm foundation consists of three levels, three columns. These are innocence, fasting, and self-control. Let all infants in Christ start with these virtues, using them as their infant like examples. For you find in a baby nothing which is cunning or deceitful. They do not have an uncontrollable appetite or stomach. There is no body lit with fire. But as they increase, perhaps as they consume more food, their animal passions increase as well.

In other words, the essential thing here is to see clearly, to think clearly—that is, dangerously—and to answer clearly the innocent first question: what, fundamentally, is colonization? To agree on what it is not: neither evangelization nor philanthropic enterprise, nor a desire to push back the frontiers of ignorance, disease, and tyranny, nor a project undertaken for the greater glory of God, nor an attempt to extend the rule of law. To admit once and for all, without flinching at the consequences, that the decisive actors here are the adventurer and the pirate, the wholesale grocer and the ship owner, the gold digger and the merchant, appetite and force, and behind them, the baleful projected shadow of a form of civilization which, at a certain point in its history, finds itself obliged, for internal reasons, to extend to a world scale the competition of its antagonistic economies.

When grown people speak of the innocence of children, they dont really know what they mean. Pressed, they will go a step further and say, Well, ignorance then. The child is neither. There is no crime which a boy of eleven had not envisaged long ago. His only innocence is, he may not yet be old enough to desire the fruits of it, which is not innocence but appetite; his ignorance is, he does not know how to commit it, which is not ignorance but size.

Discreet as you are, Rohan, one can’t help but notice how ardently you are pursued. It seems you hold quite an appeal for the ladies of London. And from all appearances, you’ve taken full advantage of what’s been offered.” Cam stared at him without expression. “Pardon, but are you leading to an actual point, my lord?” Leaning back in his chair, St. Vincent made a temple of his elegant hands and regarded Cam steadily. “Since you’ve had no problem with lack of desire in the past, I can only assume that, as happens with other appetites, yours has been sated with an overabundance of sameness. A bit of novelty may be just the thing.” Considering the statement, which actually made sense, Cam wondered if the notorious former rake had ever been tempted to stray. Having known Evie since childhood, when she had come to visit her widowed father at the club from time to time, Cam felt as protective of her as if she’d been his younger sister. No one would have paired the gentle-natured Evie with such a libertine. And perhaps no one had been as surprised as St. Vincent himself to discover their marriage of convenience had turned into a passionate love match. “What of married life?” Cam asked softly. “Does it eventually become an overabundance of sameness?” St. Vincent’s expression changed, the light blue eyes warming at the thought of his wife. “It has become clear to me that with the right woman, one can never have enough. I would welcome an overabundance of such bliss—but I doubt such a thing is mortally possible.” Closing the account book with a decisive thud, he stood from the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Rohan, I’ll bid you good night.” “What about finishing the accounting?” “I’ll leave the rest in your capable hands.” At Cam’s scowl, St. Vincent shrugged innocently. “Rohan, one of us is an unmarried man with superior mathematical abilities and no prospects for the evening. The other is a confirmed lecher in an amorous mood, with a willing and nubile young wife waiting at home. Who do you think should do the damned account books?” And, with a nonchalant wave, St. Vincent had left the office.

It sets one dreaming—to interchange thoughts with beings whose thinking had an organic background wholly different from ours (other senses, other appetites), to be unenviously humbled by intellects possibly superior to our own yet able for that very reason to descend to our level, to descend lovingly ourselves if we met innocent and childlike creatures who could never be as strong or as clever as we, to exchange with the inhabitants of other worlds that especially keen and rich affection which exists between unlikes; it is a glorious dream. But make no mistake. It is a dream. We are fallen. We know what our race does to strangers. Man destroys or enslaves every species he can. Civilized man murders, enslaves, cheats, and corrupts savage man. Even inanimate nature he turns into dust bowls and slag-heaps. There are individuals who don’t. But they are not the sort who are likely to be our pioneers in space. Our ambassador to new worlds will be the needy and greedy adventurer or the ruthless technical expert. They will do as their kind has always done. What that will be if they meet things weaker than themselves, the black man and the red man can tell. If they meet things stronger, they will be, very properly, destroyed.

Yes, people had always been evil nearly as much as they had been good. Yes, happiness was rarer than suffering - that was simply a fact of mathematics; happiness required a narrow range of conditions, and suffering flourished in all the rest. But Falcrest was not an innocent victim of a historical inevitability. Empire required a will, a brain to move the beast, to reach out with an appetite, to see other people as the answer to that appetite, to justify the devouring of other peoples as right and necessary and good, to frame slavery and conquest as acts of grace and charity. Incrasticism had provided that last and most fateful technology. The capability to justify any violence in the name of an ultimate destiny, an engine to inflict misery and to claim that misery as necessary in the quest for utopia. A false science by which the races and sexes could be separated and specialized like workers in a mill. And the endless self-deceptive blind guilty quest to justify that false science, so that the suffering and the misery remained necessary. Falcrest had chosen empire. Falcrest could therefore be held responsible for its choice. Not all those who lived in Falcrest participated in its devourings. But all those who lived in Falcrest had benefited from them, and by encouragement or by passive acceptance they had allowed those devourings to continue.

Есть вещи, делать которые вполне пристойно — непристойно лишь ими хвастаться; ибо свет обладает таким превратным суждением о вещах, что часто подвергает порицанию то, что по существу не только невинно, но и похвально. Что может быть невиннее снисходительности к природному влечению? И что может быть похвальнее размножения рода человеческого?" "История Тома Джонса, найденыша" "Things may be fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for by the perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent but laudable. What can be more innocent than the indulgence of a natural appetite? Or what more laudable than the propagation of our species?

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, “Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we’ll make it right.” The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child’s need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear’s worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

Nick watched her intently as he tried to sort through the anarchy of his thoughts. His usual appetite had vanished after their walk this morning. He had not eaten breakfast… had not done anything, really, except to wander around the estate in a sort of daze that appalled him. He knew himself to be a callous man, one with no honor, and no means of quelling his own brutish instincts. So much of his life had been occupied with basic survival that he had never been free to follow higher pursuits. He had little acquaintance with literature or history, and his mathematical abilities were limited to matters of money and betting odds. Philosophy, to him, was a handful of cynical principles learned through experience with the worst of humanity. By now, nothing could surprise or intimidate him. He didn’t fear loss, pain, or even death. But with a few words and one awkward, innocent kiss, Charlotte Howard had devastated him.

Nicolas couldn’t stop looking at her with her head thrown back, her thick, black hair streaming in the wind, her body perfectly balanced as she guided the boat. With her head back, he could see her neck and the outline of her body beneath the shirt, almost as if she wore nothing at all. His body stirred, hardened. Nicolas didn’t bother to fight the reaction. Whatever was between them, the chemistry was apparent and it wasn’t going to go away. He could sit in the boat and admire the flawless perfection of her skin. Imagine the way it would feel beneath his fingertips, his palm. Dahlia’s head suddenly turned and her eyes were on him. Hot Wild. Wary. “Stop touching my breasts.” She lifted her chin, faint color stealing under her skin. He held up his hands in surrender. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Dahlia’s breasts ached, felt swollen and hot, and deep inside her, a ravenous appetite began to stir. Nicolas was sitting across from her, looking the epitome of the perfect male statue, his features expressionless and his eyes cool, but she felt his hands on her body. Long caresses, his palms cupping her breasts, thumbs stroking her nipples until she shivered in awareness and hunger. “Oh, that.” “Yes, that.” She couldn’t help seeing the rigid length bulging beneath his jeans, and he made no effort to hide it. His unashamed display sent her body into overtime reaction so that she felt a curious throbbing where no throbbing needed to be. She grit her teeth together. “I can still feel you touching me.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I consider myself an innocent victim in this situation,” Nicolas said. “I’ve always had control, in fact I pride myself on self-discipline. You seem to have destroyed it. Permanently.” He wasn’t exactly lying to her. He couldn’t take his eyes or his mind from her body. It was an unexpected pleasure, a gift. He was devouring her with his eyes. With his mind. A part of her, the truly insane part—and Dahlia was beginning to believe there really was one—loved the way he was looking at her. She’d never experienced a man’s complete attention centered on her in a sexual way before. And he wasn’t just any man. He was . . . extraordinary. “Well, stop all the same,” she said, caught between embarrassment and pleasure. “I don’t see why my having a few fantasies should bother you.” “I’m feeling your fantasies. I think you’re projecting just a little too strongly.” His eyebrows shot up. “You mean you can actually feel what I’m thinking? My hands on your body? I thought you were reading my mind.” “I told you I could feel you touching me.” “That’s amazing. Has that ever happened before?” “No, and it better not happen again. Good grief, we’re strangers.” “You slept with me last night,” he pointed out. “Do you sleep with many strangers?” He was teasing her, but the question sent a dark shadow skittering through him.

The frequent asking of forgiveness, then^ for those things in which we often transgress, is the semblance of repentance, not repentance itself. " But the righteousness of the blameless cuts straight paths," ^ says the Scripture. And again, " The righteousness of the innocent will make his w^ay right." ^ Nay, " as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him."^ David writes, " They who sow," then, " in tears, shall 1 Heb. X. 26, 27. ^ John i. 13. ^ p^ov. xi. 5. ^ Prov. xiii. 6. ^ Ps. ciii. 13. reap in joy;"^ those, namely, who confess in penitence. "For blessed are all those that fear the Lord.""" You see the corresponding blessing in the gospel. " Fear not," it is said, " when a man is enriched, and when the glory of his house is increased: because when he dieth he shall leave all, and his glory shall not descend after him." ^ " But I in Thy mercy will enter into Thy house. I will worship toward Thy holy temple, in Thy fear : Lord, lead me in Thy righteousness."^ Appetite is then the movement of the mind to or from something.^

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

I wanted to apologize.” His gaze lifted from her bosom. He remembered those breasts in his hands. “For what?” “For deceiving you as I did. I misunderstood the nature of our relationship and behaved like a spoiled little girl. It was a terrible mistake and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” A terrible mistake? A mistake to be sure, but terrible? “There is nothing to forgive,” he replied with a tight smile. “We were both at fault.” “Yes,” she agreed with a smile of her own. “You are right. Can we be friends again?” “We never stopped.” At least that much was true. He might have played the fool, might have taken advantage of her, but he never ceased caring for her. He never would. Rose practically sighed in relief. Grey had to struggle to keep his eyes on her face. “Good. I’m so glad you feel that way. Because I do so want your approval when I find the man I’m going to marry.” Grey’s lips seized, stuck in a parody of good humor. “The choice is ultimately yours, Rose.” She waved a gloved hand. “Oh, I know that, but your opinion meant so much to Papa, and since he isn’t here to guide me, I would be so honored if you would accept that burden as well as the others you’ve so obligingly undertaken.” Help her pick a husband? Was this some kind of cruel joke? What next, did she want his blessing? She took both of his hands in hers. “I know this is rather premature, but next to Papa you have been the most important man in my life. I wonder…” She bit her top lip. “If you would consider acting in Papa’s stead and giving me away when the time comes?” He’d sling her over his shoulder and run her all the way to Gretna Green if it meant putting an end to this torture! “I would be honored.” He made the promise because he knew whomever she married wouldn’t allow him to keep it. No man in his right mind would want Grey at his wedding, let along handling his bride. Was it relief or consternation that lit her lovely face? “Oh, good. I was afraid perhaps you wouldn’t, given your fear of going out into society.” Grey scowled. Fear? Back to being a coward again was he? “Whatever gave you that notion?” She looked genuinely perplexed. “Well, the other day Kellan told me how awful your reputation had become before your attack. I assumed your shame over that to be why you avoid going out into public now.” “You assume wrong.” He'd never spoken to her with such a cold tone in all the years he'd known her. "I had no idea your opinion of me had sunk so low. And as one who has also been bandied about by gossips I would think you would know better than to believe everything you hear, no matter how much you might like the source." Now she appeared hurt. Doe-like eyes widened. "My opinion of you is as high as it ever was! I'm simply trying to say that I understand why you choose to hide-" "You think I'm hiding?" A vein in his temple throbbed. Innocent confusion met his gaze. "Aren't you?" "I avoid society because I despise it," he informed her tightly. "I would have thought you'd know that about me after all these years." She smiled sweetly. "I think my recent behavior has proven that I don't know you that well at all. After all, I obviously did not achieve my goal in seducing you, did I?" Christ Almighty. The girl knew how to turn his world arse over appetite. "There's no shame in being embarrassed, Grey. I know you regret the past, and I understand how difficult it would be for you to reenter society with that regret handing over you head." "Rose, I am not embarrassed, and I am not hiding. I shun society because I despise it. I hate the false kindness and the rules and the hypocrisy of it. Do you understand what I am saying? It is because of society that I have this." He pointed at the side of his face where the ragged scar ran.

I’d found myself falling deeper and deeper into a mental abyss. No sleep. No appetite. No exercise. Nothing seemed to give me pleasure anymore, not even music. My attitude was becoming more and more fatalistic and hopeless. I had no enthusiasm, and no particular interest in anything, including sex. It was as though I’d become a passionless robot, simply existing from day to day without feeling.

Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn't shifted since she'd removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness. The silence stretched until she wanted to scream. She twisted at the waist to face him. His expression was vivid with what, even in her innocence, she recognized as arousal. In his angular face, his eyes blazed hot silver. He was no longer the languid, sardonically amused man who'd fed her a makeshift supper. This man was captive to appetite.

brush

What if he gave me back to my dad? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d bought me for a price, how could he just return me like I was some used-up gift?

How about Sarah?” “She’s been here for years. Forever maybe.” She leans in closer. “She’s his daughter.

I miss him so much. The only thing getting me through the days is knowing how much he misses me too. Sometimes at night, I can feel him thinking about me. That’s how strong our connection is

I don’t know what I’d do without Mom. My moods are like a roller coaster and she rides them with me without complaining. She lets me rage if I need to or holds me tight while I sob. Sometimes when it gets really bad and I go to the dark place where I can’t move or speak, she just sits with me until it passes without saying a word. At night, she hovers outside my door. Even though I can’t see her, I know she’s there.

It doesn’t change the fact that your real dad left you and the person who birthed you doesn’t care enough about you to be in your life. It leaves a mark even if you don’t want it to.

He was kind and loving and never made her feel second place even after her twin brothers were born, but there was a hole in her heart where her real father should be. It doesn’t matter how good you have it or how much other people love you. It doesn’t change the fact that your real dad left you and the person who birthed you doesn’t care enough about you to be in your life. It leaves a mark even if you don’t want it to.

He was kind and loving and never made her feel second place even after her twin brothers were born, but there was a hole in her heart where her real father should be. It doesn’t matter how good you have it or how much other people love you. It doesn’t change the fact that your real dad left you and the person who birthed you doesn’t care enough about you to be in your life. It leaves a mark even if you don’t want it to.

The house is on a full acre of land. It’s quite the hike to make it to the gate. Did I tell you I have a security gate?

If you look, you might be able to make out my two pit bulls, Rocky and Rambo. Not very creative names, I know, but I’ve never been good with names. They’re vicious. I trained them well so they only respond to me. There’s nothing I like more than taming a wild beast.” He throws his head back and laughs. “I can’t believe people actually keep them as pets.

Why are you doing this to me?” My voice quivers. He leans across the table and takes my hand. “I’m doing this because I care about you.

I clear my throat. “Well, because, I know I was a virgin and Paige told me she was too. She told me all the girls he took were. I think it might be why he took us.

As soon as I realized I was disappointed, I was flooded with disbelief and felt like I’d sold part of my soul to the devil.

Replaying the memories are the only way I keep them alive. I will not forget who I am or where I come from. My mom. All my friends. The things I like to do. The way our house smells. That’s the thing that terrifies me the most. More than him. More than what happens upstairs. The forgetting.

Do something to shake her up and make her stop acting like everything is okay. Nothing is okay. Nothing about this is normal.

She still thinks I’m the same person. Like nothing has changed, but the Ella she knew died in the basement.

He smiles back. “Will you let her help you?” His eyes plead with me. I look away. I don’t need any help. There’s nothing wrong with me.

Today it came back positive. But I will not have this thing growing inside me. I refuse. I will not bring his devil child into the world. I have a purpose now. A reason to live and I thought all my reasons were gone. I have to find a way to kill this thing.

It’s also how he knew we were virgins. Vowing to stay a virgin is a big deal and we had posted pictures of our purity rings with the status update signaling the classic Christian promise, “True Love Waits,” after we’d had our commitment ceremonies.

I quickly decided there couldn’t be a God because no God who was supposed to love me and had the power to intervene in my life would do nothing to save me.

Not even my real father. I never let myself think about him. I buried him a long time ago, but Blake and Phil resurrected him. Everyone

I’m going to have someone to love who’s all mine and I can’t wait.

I don’t have to think about what it would feel like to be all alone in the world. I am all alone. I’ve been alone since John grabbed me and threw me in the trunk of his car and I woke up in the basement.

She touches me like I’m made of glass and if she pushes too hard, I’ll break. But I’m already broken. Irreparably broken. It’s only a matter of time before she realizes that.

I pause, assaulted with memories of what it was like when he first took me.

For a second—only a second—I almost start to talk and tell her everything.

What did you think I’d do with her? Send her back home to mommy and daddy? Did you really think that’s how this played out?” He snorted, threw his head back, and laughed.

I nod. “I understand. Will you let me know so I can get things ready?” He smiles at me. “Of course.

This isn’t her home. It’s mine.

I will myself to stay calm and rational. Think. Breathe. They’re only dogs. Just dogs. They’re not monsters.

It’s not. Not if Paige is dead. Not if I’m the one who killed her.

It’s why I’m here. I know that now. My days of pretending like I’m just a prisoner he likes to have dinner with are gone. He has one goal. Always has.

He didn’t have to tell me that my runs on Nike Running that automatically posted to my page were a map leading him right to me.

I disappeared and nobody cared. It was like I didn’t exist. There’s nobody for me to call and tell I’ve been found because nobody’s looking for me.

The silence stretches out between us. It’s so awkward you can feel it.

I didn’t want to go back!” I explode, unable to hold it in any longer. “I hated that man—my sorry, worthless excuse for a father. Do

I didn’t want to go back!” I explode, unable to hold it in any longer. “I hated that man—my sorry, worthless excuse for a father.

Everything about this place is quietly comfortable.

Now I just float in empty, vast darkness.

I’ve been disassembled and even though they think I’ve been put back together, I’m not. Parts are missing.

How?” My voice is barely a whisper. “You can start by admitting he’s the one who hurt you.

The human contact makes me start to cry.

I wasn’t surprised when the doctors told me I’d never be able to have children because there was too much damage inside me.

Not even my real father. I never let myself think about him. I buried him a long time ago, but Blake and Phil resurrected him.

A bubble surrounds me. I can’t be touched. Nothing can reach me. Sleep comes easily for the first time since I got home.

It doesn’t matter how good you have it or how much other people love you. It doesn’t change the fact that your real dad left you and the person who birthed you doesn’t care enough about you to be in your life. It leaves a mark even if you don’t want it to.

I stayed with him into our senior year and it happened every few months. Eventually, I didn’t try to fight him. I just let him do it because it was easier that way.

They don’t understand. They don’t know him.

My mouth is so dry my lips are sticking to my teeth.

I don’t know if my world still has room for color.

I cover my ears. His voice is too perfect. Too calm. Just like John’s. I don’t want to think about John.

My pain is too big for words. Silence stretches out between us.

They haven’t given me crutches yet, but even when they do, I don’t know how I’m going to walk with my leg in all these bulky bandages. The bites hurt worse than the break.

I didn't have to be scared of going to Hell because of my unbelief. I was already there. I lived in it every day.

When I think about killing myself, I imagine plunging the knife into my gut and the sweet release it would give me as it bled out the evil he's put in me.

I still don’t understand why he didn’t follow through with the plan.

I'm glad I can't have children. I don't want to bring a child into this world. I used to think the world was a good place. Now I know it was only a fairytale. Bad things happen and they happen all the time. They're everywhere. You can't stop them.

Turning to the stove, he picked up the pan of veggie sauce and dumped it over a bowl of whole-grain pasta. He sprinkled shredded soy cheese over the top. “Eat something before you go— this’ll give you sustained energy.” “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve lost my appetite.” A wry grin crossed his lips. “Like hell you have. Ten minutes after you leave, you’re heading to the drive-through window of the nearest Whataburger.” “You think I’d cheat on you?” I demanded with all the innocent outrage I could muster. “With another guy, no. With a cheeseburger . . . in a heartbeat.” -Dane & Ella

The Accuser scoffed with derision. He was so loud, he turned heads. “I knew he would pull this.” Enoch continued, “The purpose of blood sacrifice is to place the penalty of the guilty upon an unblemished innocent. The shed blood satisfies divine wrath for justice, which makes forgiveness of the repentant covenant-breaker possible.” “Barbaric!” barked the Accuser. “Slaughtering innocent precious animals for the bloodlust of divinity. This animal cruelty is despicable and disgusting.” In truth, it was not despicable or disgusting to the Accuser or the rest of the rebel Watchers. They had set up their own religion of blood sacrifice that would substitute humans for animals. Children seemed to please them the most. Children in great numbers. Cutting their hearts out and piling their bodies into a pit. The Great Goddess Earth Mother was the most voracious, with a ravenous appetite like Sheol. Her tree rings consisted of the corpses of human vermin, the virus of the planet. But the Accuser did not have the luxury of consistency, he was trying to win a case.

Toward the final hallway, we found an attraction that hadn’t been there in previous years. Or maybe in other years we were more innocent and less observant, more eager to run to the next delight. Whatever the reason, as we neared the exit we were caught between two giant mirrors that faced each other, reflecting the image between them back and forth ad infinitum. We had dressed alike as we often did, or as often as cheap clothing and Goodwill bags would allow. We had on pale colored shorts and plain pink T’s, our heads covered with the fluorescent green bandanas we’d purchased, and flip flops on our feet. I was browner and a little heavier than Minnie—the chemo made her more susceptible to sunburn and killed her appetite, but other than that, we were still identical. Minnie and I stared at the rows of twins that had no end, one behind another in smaller and smaller replicas of the original. Bonnie and Minnie forever . . . and ever and ever. I reached for Minnie’s hand, and all our reflections joined hands as well, making the hair rise on my neck. Maybe it should have been comforting, the thought of the two of us going on forever, but it wasn’t. “There are twins, triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets, right? But what do you call that?” Minnie said, her eyes glued to the mirror in front of us. “Scary as hell,” I answered

Thus a man will delude himself, believing that with his mind or spirit he is against committing fornication or adultery, but that by his lusts and bodily appetites he is being driven toward the act. His excuse for the commission of sins that his lusts are too strong and his spirit too weak and weary to resist them. In reality, his sin has been the act of a unified man, whose mind has willed to sin but has acted out a charade designed to impress his mind’s native innocence on God and himself. Man sins because he chooses to sin, because every aspect of his being, mind and body, are alike fallen and given to sin. Indeed, long after the body is too sated or worn to continue in sin, the mind pores over sin like a miser over hoarded gold.

Did you see how big his house is?” And then I remember, of course they haven’t seen his house. The house is gone.

I want something to hold on to, but there’s nothing there anymore. I feel like I’m flying or falling, never steady or planted on anything solid. I’m unstuck from the world around me. Now I just float in empty, vast darkness.

can’t have any of this. This is not how it works. You’ve got one more try.” Terror rushes through my body. “What happens if I can’t?” He doesn’t answer.

I don’t want them to get too close because if they do, they might catch the disease rotting away my insides.

Also, the timing’s never been right and I haven’t found anyone I could see myself creating life with. Until now. Until you, Ella. I want to create life with you.

The only reason my father kept me after my mother died was to collect the benefits from the state and use me as a prop when he begged for money or to sell me out to his friends. That was it.

She’s barely closed the door before I reach underneath the bed and grab the bottle.

I lock my eyes on John, hoping he’s proud of me. “I’ve never seen any of these men.

I’m only telling you this because I think it will help you and I want to help you. What I went through doesn’t compare to what you went through, but you’re not alone. You can find your way back to the truth.