Cry For Cuts And Stitches Quotes

Memories whirled in the back of her head. Not frightening this time. The owner of that voice made her smile. He protected her, and he loved her. When she was with him, the world felt right. As long as she was with him, she was safe. He entered the room, crossing at an angle to her so that she saw just his shoulders and a glimpse of flat stomach. Not a stitch of clothing covered him. Not one. She could see the backs of his thighs and his bare behind. Round and strong and firm. Dark hair cut short gave his profile greater sternness. She knew beyond certainty she had every right to be here, with him perfectly naked. Her heart swelled with joy, a feeling so intense she wanted to cry out to the world. He stopped at the window and stood there, one arm resting atop the sash, staring at the hills rising toward Scotland. His arm came forward on the sash, and he shifted so that he faced her. "Well," he said in a soft voice that made her breath catch. His voice was velvet, liquid velvet, and she was drowning in it, filled all the way to her soul. That voice, a woman could love. "Good afternoon." Bluer eyes she'd never seen. Nor more piercing ones. She drowned in eyes of an incredible, piercing blue. The light shimmered as a cloud crossed the sun. But this man, this man with eyes like frost on a window, whose eyes made battle-hardened men quail and who seemed so foreign to tenderness, made her complete...

need say was I need some time off. But she couldn’t do it. “The St. James house at half-past seven,” she repeated. “Got it, sir.” He rang off. Barbara hung up. She tried to plumb the depths of her feelings, to put a name to what was slowly washing through her veins. She wanted to call it shame. She knew it was liberation. She went to tell her father that they would need to reschedule his doctor’s appointment for another day. Kevin Whateley had not gone to the Royal Plantagenet, which was the pub next door to his cottage. Rather, he had walked along the embankment, past the triangular green where he and Matthew had once learned to operate their pair of remote-control planes, and had instead entered an older pub that stood on a spit of land reaching like a curled finger into the Thames. He’d chosen the Blue Dove deliberately. In the Royal Plantagenet—despite its proximity to his house—he might have forgotten for five minutes or so. But the Blue Dove would not allow him to do so. He sat at a table that overlooked the water. In spite of the night’s falling temperature, someone was out, night fishing from a boat, and lights bobbed periodically with the river’s movement. Kevin watched this, allowing his memory to fill with the image of Matthew running along that same dock, falling, damaging a knee, righting himself but not crying at all, even when the blood began to seep from the cut, even when the stitches were later put in. He was a brave little bloke, always had been. Kevin forced his eyes from the dock and fastened them on the mahogany table. Beer mats covered it, advertising Watney’s, Guinness, and Smith’s. Carefully, Kevin stacked them, restacked them, spread them out like cards, restacked them again. He felt how shallow his breathing was and knew that he needed to take in more air. But to breathe deeply was to lose his grip for an instant. He wouldn’t do that. For if he lost control, he didn’t know how he would get it back. So he did without air. He waited. He didn’t know if the man he sought would come into the pub this late on a Sunday night, mere minutes before closing. In fact, he didn’t even know if the man came here at all any longer. But years ago he’d been a regular customer, when Patsy worked long hours behind the bar, before she’d got her job in a South Kensington hotel. For Matthew’s sake, she had said when she’d taken on the

Monsters aren’t born. They’re built. Not in sterile, bright laboratories with syringes of vile thoughts or bitter goals. No. They’re made in dark, crumbling homes where hope rots beneath the weight of silence. Where the walls echo with the cruel words of gossip and the scorn of those too cowardly to confront their own sins. Monsters start as children. Wide-eyed and defenseless, too small to understand why the world is always sharper to them. They are sculpted by hands that never knew how to hold them gently, by the shame pressed into their skin like fingerprints. The kind of shame that leaves eternal bruises.  These children, they grow. First in silence, then in anger. They learn not to cry but to sharpen their smiles into something cruel, something that cuts. They don’t cry for help anymore—they grow teeth.  Teeth made for tearing through the world that fed them nothing but lies. And when they bite back, the world gasps, clutches its pearls, quickly blaming faulty genetics or some cursed bloodline. No one wants to see their reflection in those broken children, to admit that they are responsible for stitching that monster together, piece by jagged piece.  They made me this way. 

This is not a book for those seeking entertainment. It’s a gentle — yet ferocious — cry for the ones exhausted by the system, the ego, and illusion. A sacred invitation to sit in the dark… and finally feel. Here, you won’t find success formulas, motivational clichés, or “feed spirituality.” You’ll find naked truth, faith in collapse, and hope reborn from ashes. You’ll recognize yourself in pages that speak of: *Existential fatigue and silent burnout, from those who function on the outside while decaying within; *The system that manufactures puppets, turns souls into QR codes, and dares to call that freedom; *Fast-food spirituality, sold in 30-second videos and “light” workshops — while true awakening hurts, dismantles, and liberates; *God without dogmas, who doesn’t live inside paid temples, but in the silence between one breath and another; *Soul connections that heal rather than consume — love that awakens, not imprisons; *The ego disguised as consciousness, craving stage lights, applause, and hashtags — but terrified to face its own emptiness; *A society that crucifies truth and glorifies illusion, trading compassion for clout; *The beauty of simplicity, the return to what’s essential — the wind, the silence, the faith that rises when everything falls apart; *The everyday hell, the one without horns — but full of bills, inequality, rush, and inhumanity; *The love that wounds while pretending to be destiny, and the sacred learning of finally choosing yourself. This book is for those who have already died inside and still keep trying. For those who feel too much and wonder if it’s wrong to be sensitive. For those who are tired of “going with the flow” when the flow leads straight to the abyss. If you feel like you don’t belong in this programmed world... If you’ve asked yourself why waking up hurts so much... If you sense that God isn’t far away, but resting quietly inside your own chest... Then this book is your mirror. It will strip you of illusions and dress you in essence. It will cut you — and then stitch you back together with faith. It will break you open — so that you can be reborn. Because here, between screams and prayers, a tired soul found healing through writing. And maybe, as you read... yours will start remembering who it truly is. Emotional Roller Coaster — Confessions of a Soul Reborn from the Ashes is more than literature; it’s a mirror for every soul tired of surviving, pretending, and fitting in. It’s not just a book — it’s a soul’s calling. A work that is healing, exorcism, and rebirth. A cry for those who still feel — and a prayer for those who forgot how.