Punishment For Breaking Heart Quotes

God…” I choked on the word. “I know we haven’t talked much in the past few years. Hell, I told you I hated you when Tye took his own life.” I cursed again and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even care about myself anymore, just promise me she’ll be okay. If I don’t make it… if you take me, just let Kiersten be okay. She can’t go down that road — I don’t care if you have to punish me, God. If she’s going to suffer, give me her pain instead. If her heart’s going to break, break mine for hers. Please, God… please.

It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she'd played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she'd gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of that she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan's eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

You were the first man to break my heart, and I guess it’s fitting. But you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to punish us both. I came here to collect your fortune, but I would give every dime back for just a few minutes with you.

Is it necessary that Heaven should borrow its light from the glare of Hell? Infinite punishment is infinite cruelty, endless injustice, immortal meanness. To worship an eternal gaoler hardens, debases, and pollutes even the vilest soul. While there is one sad and breaking heart in the universe, no good being can be perfectly happy.

Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played tricks on me enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can;t learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a-laying up sin and suffering for the both of us, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart almost breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hooky this evening, and I'll just be obleeged to make him work tomorrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've got to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child.

You owe it to yourself to forgive and forget. Holding grudges is like punishing yourself for others' actions and rewarding them for hurting you.

My capacity to break was not a burden or a punishment. It was my gift. My gift was to dare to be broken open again and again.

God…” I choked on the word. “I know we haven’t talked much in the past few years. Hell, I told you I hated you when Tye took his own life.” I cursed again and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even care about myself anymore, just promise me she’ll be okay. If I don’t make it… if you take me, just let Kiersten be okay. She can’t go down that road — I don’t care if you have to punish me, God. If she’s going to suffer, give me her pain instead. If her heart’s going to break, break mine for hers. Please, God… please.” The drugs Angela had given me started to kick in, I fell into a dreamless sleep with that prayer repeating over and over again in my head.

Is it necessary that Heaven should borrow its light from the glare of Hell? Infinite punishment is infinite cruelty, endless injustice, immortal meanness. To worship an eternal gaoler hardens, debases, and pollutes even the vilest soul. While there is one sad and breaking heart in the universe, no good being can be perfectly happy. Against the heartlessness of the Christian religion every grand and tender soul should enter solemn protest. The God of Hell should be held in loathing, contempt and scorn. A God who threatens eternal pain should be hated, not loved – cursed, not worshiped. A heaven presided over by such a God must be below the lowest hell. I want no part in any heaven in which the saved, the ransomed and redeemed will drown with shouts of joy the cries and sobs of hell – in which happiness will forget misery, where the tears of the lost only increase laughter and double bliss. The idea of hell was born of ignorance, brutality, fear cowardice, and revenge. This idea testifies that our remote ancestors were the lowest beasts. Only from dens, lairs, and caves, only from mouths filled with cruel fangs, only from hearts of fear and hatred, only from the conscience of hunger and lust, only from the lowest and most debased could come this cruel, heartless and bestial of all dogmas.

I hope that I get to see you love what you are. To know yourself as gift and worth and truth. That you see what a huge thing it is to have the courage to break your own heart. That you have chosen wholeness — even when it has shattered you. And that you will one day see that you can be whole and broken in the exact same spaces, that they nestle side by side — and that this is the way of things. Not your punishment for wrongdoing, or for not trying hard enough — but just the way of things. That you can stand and look at yourself in a mirror and see your goodness right there, see the worth of what you bring on the surface of your skin, just like I do. That you trust there is brilliance to come. That you own what is yours to own, both the bad and the good. That you do not insist on owning it all. It was never all yours to hold

No one is born a sinner, but since a human is a magnet for sin, as we grow, we fill our heart and soul with an immeasurable number of sins that we don’t even recognize. If, like us, God started to punish us for our sins and showed His wrath, I don’t think any of us would survive. But He is the most compassionate being, Who delays our impending punishments and overlooks the sins which we commit in our daily lives. Lies, false behavior, betrayal, breaking hearts, we commit these sins on an almost daily basis, and we never give a thought to the fact that if He starts to hold each of us accountable for our sins, then we would all be living in Hell." -- A Prayer Heeded: A Prayer Series II

Time disappears, and it is just me and the mountain, and the wind. I have always been in this windstorm, I think, as I fight my way forward. And I will always be in this windstorm. Up ahead, on a ridge, is a single tree. Someday, I think, I am going to be reincarnated as that tree. As punishment for every choice I've ever made. Or as a reward.  

Under our infamous laws the seducer is not punished, and is not even disgraced, but his victim and all her family and kindred are smirched with a stain which is permanent—a stain which the years cannot remove, nor even modify. Our laws break the hearts and ruin the lives of the victim and of her people, and let the seducer go free. I am not of a harsh nature—I am the reverse of that—and yet if I could have my way the seducer should be flayed alive in the middle of the public plaza, with all the world to look on.

And do not try to be so brave. I am your lifemate.You cannot hide from me something as powerful as fear." "Trepidation," she corrected, nibbling at the pad of his thumb. "Is there a difference?" His pale eyes had warmed to molten mercury. Just that fast, her body ent liquid in answer. "You know very well there is." She laughed again, and the sound traveled down from his heart to pool in his groin, a heavy,familiar ache. "Slight, perhaps, but very important." "I will try to make you happy, Savannah," he promised gravely. Her fingers went up to brush at the thick mane of hair falling around his face. "You are my lifemate, Gregori. I have no doubt you will make me happy." He had to look away,out the window into the night. She was so good, with so much beauty in her, while he was so dark, his goodness drained into the ground with the blood of all the lives he had taken while he waited for her. But now,faced with the reality of her, Gregori could not bear her to witness the blackness within him, the hideous stain across his soul. For beyond his killing and law-breaking, he had committed the gravest crime of all. And he deserved the ultimate penalty, the forfeit of his life. He had deliberately tempered with nature.He knew he was powerful enough, knew his knowledge exeeded the boundaries of Carpathian law. He had taken Savannah's free will, manipulated the chemistry between them so that she would believe he was her true lifemate. And so she was with him-less than a quarter of a century of innocence pitted against his thousand years of hard study.Perhaps that was his punishment, he mused-being sentenced to an eternity of knowing Savannah could never really love him, never really accept his black soul.That she would be ever near yet so far away. If she ever found out the extent of his manipulation, she would despise him. Yet he could never,ever, allow her to leave him. Not if mortals and immortals alike were to be safe. His jaw hardened, and he stared out the window, turning slightly away from her. His mind firmly left hers, not wanting to alert her to the grave crime he had committed.He could bear torture and centuries of isolation, he could bear his own great sins, but he could not endure her loathing him. Unconsciously, he took her hand in his and tightened his grip until it threatened to crush her fragile bones. Savannah glanced at him, let out a breath slowly to keep from wincing, and kept her hand passively in his.He thought his mind closed to her.Didn't believe she was his true lifemate. He truly believed he had manipulated the outcome of their joining unfairly and that somewhere another Carpathian male with the chemistry to match hers might be waiting.Though he had offered her free access to his mind, had himself given her the power,to meld her mind with his,both as her wolf and as her healer before she was born,he likely didn't think a woman,a fledging, and one who was not his true lifemate, could possibly have the skill to read his innermost secrets.But Savannah could. And completing the ancient ritual of lifemates had only strengthened the bond.

What the devil happened to you?" Richard asked with amazement as he led Robert to the bed. "I was shot," Daniel said. Richard frowned, but Robert snapped, "It was probably the Fates punishing you." "Punishing me for what?" he asked with surprise. "For breaking Suzette's heart," he growled. "She was crushed when she got your letter.

You would have to be loved before you could be changed by it,” she added. “And I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t love you.” “You’re breaking my heart.” “Not that it isn’t an interesting thought. If anything could possibly affect you. I don’t know. What would happen if someone did love you? I think you’d reject them; in fact, I think you’d punish them for their naivete. I don’t think you’d let somebody love you, even if that were possible.

From the beginning of Camp X-Ray, we had been creating, and those small acts were our escape. Some of us wrote on Styrofoam cups and plates. We used spoons or twisted the tiny stems off apples to write poems or draw flowers, hearts, the moon. We made flowers out of stickers we found on fruit. These were tiny expressions of our former selves breaking through, resisting the identities imprinted on us. These simple expressions were as necessary as food and water, and they were always punished.

Jacob, is something wrong? Is Isabella okay?” “Probably. She is not well today. It could be a normal thing for a human female, but since she is usually as resistant to common ailments now as we are, she is nervous. I figured Gideon could ease her mind.” Noah missed the wince that crossed his friend’s face that would have given away the indignant argument flying through the Enforcer’s thoughts. Jacob’s female counterpart huffily took umbrage to his claims of exactly who it was that was nervous and who had insisted on seeking Gideon, because it certainly had not been her. “Tell her I hope she feels better,” Noah said, his fondness for Bella quite clear in his tone. “Bear with her, old friend. She’s breaking new ground. It can be pretty frightening to play Eve for an entire race.” “Do not worry. When it comes to my Bella, I would do anything to see to her happiness. That includes making others do anything to see to her happiness,” Jacob said. He meant the words, of course, but he was hoping they’d help sooth someone’s bristling pride. “I’m sure Gideon is going to love that,” Noah laughed. Jacob grinned, altering gravity so that he began to float up from the floor. “If you see Gideon before I do, will you tell him to come to Bella?” “Of course. Tell her I said to start behaving like a real Druid or I—” Noah was cut off by a sharp hand motion and a warning expression from the Enforcer. It came a little too late, however, if Jacob’s pained expression was anything to judge by. “There goes your invitation for our wedding,” Jacob muttered. “And I think I am close behind you.” “I would believe that if I were not the one who is supposed to perform it and if you were not the father of her otherwise illegitimate child,” Noah countered loudly, clearly talking to the person beyond his immediate perception. “Ow! Damn it, Noah!” Jacob grumbled, rubbing his temples as Bella’s scream of frustration echoed through him. “Do you remember I am the one who has to go home to her, would you?” “Sorry, my friend,” Noah chuckled, not looking at all repentant. “Now get out of here, Enforcer. Find Gideon and tend to your beautiful and charming mate. Be sure to mention to her that I said she looks ravishing and that her pregnancy has made her shine like a precious jewel.” “Noah, if you were not my King, I would kill you for this.” “Yes, well, as your King I would have you arrested for treason just for saying that. Luckily for you, Jacob, you are the man who would arrest you, and the woman who also has the power to do so is sure to punish you far better than I can when you get home.” “You are all heart, my liege,” Jacob said wryly. “Thank you. Now leave, before I begin to expound on the disrespect that this mouthy little female of yours seems to have engendered my formerly loyal subjects.

Do you have any cheese preferences?” Jack asked. “All cheese is good cheese, Lend said. “True dat.” I nodded solemnly. “You did not just say ‘true dat,’” Arianna said, walking into the kitchen. “Because if you think you have any ability whatsoever to pull that off, we are going to have to have a long, long talk.” “Can I at least use it ironically? Or ‘dude.’ Can I use ‘dude?’ Because I really want to be able to use ‘dude.’” “No. No, you cannot, but thank you for asking. Besides, ironic use always segues into non-ironic use, and unless you suddenly become far cooler or far more actually Californian than you are now, I simply cannot allow it.” “But on Easton Heights—” “You are not going to bring up Cary’s cousin Trevyn’s multiepisode arc where he’s sent there as punishment for his pot-smoking surf-bum ways, are you? Because that arc sucked, and he wasn’t even very hot. Also, what’s the lunatic doing?” She jerked her head toward Jack. He flipped a gorgeous looking omelet onto a plate and placed it with a flourish in front of Lend. “I am providing insurance against frying pan boy deciding to enact all the very painful fantasies he’s no doubt entertained about me for the last few weeks. An omelet this good should rule out any dismemberment vengeance.” “Have you been reading his diary?” I asked. “Because I’ll bet he got really creative with the violence ideas.” “No, I only ever read yours. But let me tell you, one more exclamation mark dotted with a heart while talking about how good a kisser Lend is and I was about ready to do myself in. You’re rather single-minded when it comes to adoring him.” “True dat,” Arianna said, nodding. “How come you can use ‘true dat’ if I can’t?” I asked, rightfully outraged. “Because I’m dead, and none of the rules apply anymore.” Lend ate his omelet, refusing to answer Jack’s questions about just how delicious it was on a scale from cutting off limbs to just breaking his nose. I gave Jack full points for flavor but noted the texture was slightly off, exempting him from name-calling but not from dirty looks. Arianna lounged against the counter, and when I finished first we debated the usage rules of “dude,” “true dat,” and my favorite, “for serious.” “I kind of wish they’d shut up,” Jack said. “Dude, true dat,” Lend answered. Jack nodded solemnly. “For serious.

Lincoln’s liberal use of his pardoning power created the greatest tension between the two men (Lincoln and Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War). Stanton felt compelled to protect military discipline by exacting proper punishment for desertions or derelictions of duty, while Lincoln looked for any “good excuse for saving a man’s life.” When he found one, he said, “I go to bed happy as I think how joyous the signing of my name will make him and his family and his friends.” Stanton would not allow himself such leniency. A clerk recalled finding Stanton one night in his office, “the mother, wife, and children of a soldier who had been condemned to be shot as a deserter, on their knees before him pleading for the life of their loved one. He listened standing, in cold and austere silence, and at the end of their heart-breaking sobs and prayers answered briefly that the man must die. The crushed and despairing little family left and Mr. Stanton turned, apparently unmoved, and walked into his private room.” The clerk thought Stanton an unfeeling tyrant, until he discovered him moments later, “leaning over a desk, his face buried in his hands and his heavy frame shaking with sobs. ‘God help me to do my duty; God help me to do my duty!’ he was repeating in a low wail of anguish.” On such occasions, when Stanton felt he could not afford to set a precedent, he must have been secretly relieved that the president had the ultimate authority.

A passion, therefore, consists not in being affected by the sights which are presented to us, but in giving way to our feelings and following up these chance promptings: for whoever imagines that paleness, bursting into tears, lustful feelings, deep sighs, sudden flashes of the eyes, and so forth, are signs of passion and betray the state of the mind, is mistaken, and does not understand that these are merely impulses of the body. Consequently, the bravest of men often turns pale while he is putting on his armour; when the signal for battle is given, the knees of the boldest soldier shake for a moment; the heart even of a great general leaps into his mouth just before the lines clash together, and the hands and feet even of the most eloquent orator grow stiff and cold while he is preparing to begin his speech. Anger must not merely move, but break out of bounds, being an impulse: now, no impulse can take place without the consent of the mind: for it cannot be that we should deal with revenge and punishment without the mind being cognisant of them. A man may think himself injured, may wish to avenge his wrongs, and then may be persuaded by some reason or other to give up his intention and calm down: I do not call that anger, it is an emotion of the mind which is under the control of reason.

Punish me for my awful pride," she said to him, clasping him in her arms so tightly as almost to choke him. "You are my master, dear, I am your slave. I must ask your pardon on my knees for having tried to rebel." She left his arms to fall at his feet. "Yes," she said to him, still intoxicated with happiness and with love, "you are my master, reign over me for ever. When your slave tries to revolt, punish her severely." In another moment she tore herself from his arms, and lit a candle, and it was only by a supreme effort that Julien could prevent her from cutting off a whole tress of her hair. "I want to remind myself," she said to him, "that I am your handmaid. If I am ever led astray again by my abominable pride, show me this hair and say, 'It is not a question of the emotion which your soul may be feeling at present, you have sworn to obey, obey on your honour.' As he was moving his hand over the soft ground in the darkness and satisfying himself that the mark had entirely disappeared, he felt something fall down on his hands. It was a whole tress of Mathilde's hair which she had cut off and thrown down to him. She was at the window. "That's what your servant sends you," she said to him in a fairly loud voice, "It is the sign of eternal gratitude. I renounce the exercise of my reason, be my master." Julien was quite overcome and was on the point of going to fetch the ladder again and climbing back into her room. Finally reason prevailed. (A few days later...) In a single minute mademoiselle de la Mole reached the point of loading Julien with the signs of the most extreme contempt. She had infinite wit, and this wit was always triumphant in the art of torturing vanity and wounding it cruelly. Hearing himself overwhelmed with such marks of contempt which were so cleverly calculated to destroy any good opinion that he might have of himself, he thought that Mathilde was right, and that she did not say enough. As for her, she found it deliciously gratifying to her pride to punish in this way both herself and him for the adoration that she had felt some days previously. She did not have to invent and improvise the cruel remarks which she addressed to him with so much gusto. Each word intensified a hundredfold Julien's awful unhappiness. He wanted to run away, but mademoiselle de la Mole took hold of his arm authoritatively. "Be good enough to remark," he said to her, "that you are talking very loud. You will be heard in the next room." "What does it matter?" mademoiselle de la Mole answered haughtily. "Who will dare to say they have heard me? I want to cure your miserable vanity once and for all of any ideas you may have indulged in on my account." When Julien was allowed to leave the library he was so astonished that he was less sensitive to his unhappiness. "She does not love me any more," he repeated to himself... "Is it really possible she was nothing to me, nothing to my heart so few days back?" Mathilde's heart was inundated by the joy of satisfied pride. So she had been able to break with him for ever! So complete a triumph over so strong an inclination rendered her completely happy. "So this little gentleman will understand, once and for all, that he has not, and will never have, any dominion over me." She was so happy that in reality she ceased to love at this particular moment.

His grip tightened and he closed the distance between us, his mouth catching mine in a kiss that made my aching heart throb with the most painful kind of hope. I gripped his shirt in my fists and dragged him closer as I kissed him like the sky might cave in if I didn’t, even though it was more likely that it would if I did. Thunder crashed like an explosion overhead, freezing cold rain pelted down on us and lightning slammed into the ground behind us. But I didn’t care. I would gladly take the rage of the heavens in payment for this moment in his arms. Darius pulled me closer, growling hungrily as his tongue pushed into my mouth and he kissed me savagely, filthily, desperately. I pushed up onto my tiptoes, my body pressing flush to his as I wound my arms round his neck and my heart pounded to a brutal beat like it wanted to force its way out ofmy chest and meet with his. Lightning struck the ground so close that a crackle of electricity danced up my spine. I flinched, but my grip on Darius only tightened. I dropped the barriers on my magic and Darius’s power flooded through me on a tide of ecstasy as we merged our essences together. We were meant to be together like this, it was painted beneath my skin and through my veins, even my magic ached for him and yearned for the caress of his power. Thunder boomed and I growled in defiance, lifting my hand to cast a shield of solid air magic around us, cutting off the storm completely. Darius’s magic flowed alongside mine into the shield, the strength of our will blocking out the will of the stars. The earth rocked savagely beneath our feet and we fell. Darius kept ahold of me as he hit the ground on his back and I tumbled aside for a moment, but I wasn’t going to let them drive us apart. I shoved myself to my knees, crawling over his legs as he pushed up on his elbows and kissed me again. His fingers slid through my wet hair and his stubble grazed my skin as he kissed me so hard it was bruising, punishing, branding and yet it wasn’t enough. My heart was aching, tears pricking the backs of my eyes as I fought to keep hold of him while the storm hammered against our magic, determined to tear us apart again. I poured magic from my body to hold the shield as rain slammed against it so hard that the air rattled around us. Darius dragged me against him and I could feel how much he wanted me in every hard line and ridge of his body. We were both drenched, covered in mud and utterly incapable of giving one shit about it. Lightning slammed into the shield and I gasped as it almost buckled, breaking our kiss as I looked up at the black sky above us. More lightning split the clouds apart, striking the ground all around us again and again, making the earth rock even more violently. As a second bolt hit our shield, I almost lost control of it and I could feel my power waning as I threw everything I had into maintaining it. We only had seconds before it was going to collapse and I reached out to catch Darius’s jaw in my grip, looking into his dark eyes with a pang of longing. “I’m sorry I did this to us,” I breathed. I might not have been sure everything between us was fixed yet, but I was beginning to believe it could be and I was starting to think I’d made the wrong choice when I’d been offered it. “It wasn’t you,” he replied, pain flickering though his gaze. “It was both of us,” I disagreed, tears mixing with the rain on my cheeks. (Tory)

But now, strange as it seems, a peasant's small, scrawny. light brown nag is harnessed to such a large cart, one of those horses he's seen it often that sometimes strain to pull some huge load of firewood or hay. Especially if the cart has gotten stuck in the mud or a rut. The peasants always whip the horse so terribly, so very painfully, sometimes even across its muzzle and eyes, and he would always feel so sorry, so very sorry to witness it that he would feel like crying, and his mother would always lead him away from the window. Now things are getting extremely boisterous: some very large and extremely drunken peasants in red and blue shirts, their heavy coats slung over their shoulders. come out of the tavern shouting, singing. and playing balalaikas. “Git in. everyone git in!" shouts one peasant, a young lad with a thick neck and a fleshy face, red as a beet, “I'll take ya all. Git in!" But there is a burst of laughter and shouting: “That ol’ nag ain't good for nothin'!" “Hey, Mikolka, you must be outta yer head to hitch that ol' mare to yer cart!" “That poor ol' horse must be twenty if she's a day, lads!" “Git in, I'll take ya all!" Mikolka shouts again,jumping in first, taking hold of the reins, and standing up straight in the front of the cart. “Matvei went off with the bay," he cries from the cart, “and as for this ol' mare here, lads, she's only breakin' my heart: I don't give a damn ifit kills ’er; she ain't worth her salt. Git in, I tell ya! I'll make 'er gallop! She’ll gallop, all right!" And he takes the whip in his hand, getting ready to thrash the horse with delight. "What the hell, git in!" laugh several people in the crowd. "You heard 'im, she'll gallop!" “I bet she ain't galloped in ten years!" "She will now!" “Don't pity 'er, lads; everyone, bring yer whips, git ready!" "That's it! Thrash 'er!" They all clamber into Mikolka's cart with guffaws and wisecracks. There are six lads and room for more. They take along a peasant woman, fat and ruddy. She's wearing red calico, a headdress trimmed with beads, and fur slippers; she‘s cracking nuts and cackling. The crowd’s also laughing; as a matter of fact, how could one keep from laughing at the idea of a broken down old mare about to gallop, trying to pull such a heavy load! Two lads in the cart grab their whips to help Mikolka. The shout rings out: “Pull!" The mare strains with all her might, but not only can’t she gallop, she can barely take a step forward; she merely scrapes her hooves, grunts, and cowers from the blows of the three whips raining down on her like hail. Laughter redoubles in the cart and among the crowd, but Mikolka grows angry and in his rage strikes the little mare with more blows, as if he really thinks she’ll be able to gallop. “Take me along, too, lads!" shouts someone from the crowd who’s gotten a taste of the fun. “Git in! Everyone, git inl" cries Mikolka. “She'll take everyone. I‘ll flog 'er!" And he whips her and whips her again; in his frenzy, he no longer knows what he’s doing. “Papa, papa," the boy cries to his father. “Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they‘re beating the poor horse!" “Let's go, let's go!" his father says. “They’re drunk, misbehaving, those fools: let’s go. Don't look!" He tries to lead his son away. but the boy breaks from his father‘s arms; beside himself, he runs toward the horse. But the poor horse is on her last legs. Gasping for breath, she stops, and then tries to pull again, about to drop. “Beat 'er to death!" cries Mikolka. ”That's what it's come to. I‘ll flog ‘er!" “Aren't you a Christian. you devil?" shouts one old man from the crowd. “Just imagine, asking an ol' horse like that to pull such a heavy load,” adds another. “You‘ll do 'er in!" shouts a third. “Leave me alone! She’s mine! I can do what I want with 'er! Git in, all of ya! Everyone git in I'm gonna make 'er gallop!

Holding unforgiveness in my heart and expecting it to hurt my abusers was the equivalent of drinking poison myself and expecting it to kill the other guy. I thought I was punishing them, but in reality I wasn’t doing any damage to them—I was only doing damage to my own soul and to my walk with Jesus.

Now if we turn to the Book of Revelation—which we saw as a cause of offense in its apparent celebration of a God of violence—we have to say in all honesty that it is in fact a nonviolent New Testament writing, and profoundly so. ‘The Lamb’ is the general symbolic name given to Jesus in the book, mentioned 29 times, an image of nonviolence and the book’s undisputed hero. The essence of the Lamb is not to use violence. When we first hear of it is ‘standing as if it had been slaughtered’ (5:6): it does not fight, it is slaughtered, and it continues exactly ‘as if it were something slaughtered (i.e. it does not lose this identity). Furthermore its followers do not fight, they also are killed. We learn that the Lamb holds the key to human history, opening its seals to reveal its purpose and meaning, including its intense inner violence. The Lamb is able to do this because it represents a completely different human / divine way of responding, other than that of violence. At the same time, precisely because of this revelation, all hell (literally) breaks out around the Lamb. The old world system—the Beast—does not remain indifferent to the introduction of a new way and the absolute challenge it makes, but reacts with continually redoubled violence. At the end of the book there is a final battle when the Beast and the kings of the earth with their armies are all slain by a figure called the Word of God, by the sword which comes from his mouth. But directly afterwards the new earth and the city of the Lamb welcome and heal these very kings and nations which have just been slain! The only figures not to be restored are the Beast and its prophet which represent the system of violence, the imperial order with its ideological apparatus of cult and worship. No doubt there is a powerful tonality of anger running through the book, against the oppression and murder that the Christian communities were then experiencing at the hands of the Roman Empire. And there is pretty clearly a sense of emotional release offered by the images of destruction and vengeance unleashed against the forces of oppression. But the final structure of the book is redemptive and life-giving, and that has to be admitted in any honest assessment. The duality then is not between a vengeful God and a gentle Jesus, or an initially gentle Jesus and then a violent one, but between an actual world and culture of violence and a core message of forgiveness and nonviolence. The early Christians were sorely oppressed by the former and seeking desperately to hang on to the latter. If they use language and symbolism derived from the former to restore hope in the substance of the latter then the tension is literary and poetic, rather than two moods or identities of God. The book of Revelation was intended to have a cathartic effect on emotion, in order that the Christians who read or heard it could arrive, in their minds and hearts, at the transformed perspective where they welcomed and blessed their enemies. In other words it was and is intended to be therapeutic.3 In contrast the split between Jesus and a God of punishment—which came to full growth in the Middle Ages—is ontological, and can only lead to a fundamental division in the Christian soul, with eternal love on the one hand, and eternal violence on the other. In other words, a spiritual schizophrenia. This

All those songs I used to pretend to understand, all the angsty, heartbroken songs I had heard all my life, they suddenly made so much more sense. "Well, then she probably needs a giant coffee, a huge box of your creations, and some time to nurse her feelings in private, don't you think?" Brantley Dane, local hero, saves girl from sure death brought on by sheer mortification. That'd be his headline. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, moving behind me, casually touching my hip in the process, and going behind counter. "What's your poison? Judging by the situation, I am thinking something cold, mocha or caramel filled and absolutely towering with full fat whipped cream." That was exactly what I wanted. But, broken heart aside, I knew I couldn't let myself drown in sweets. Gaining twenty pounds wasn't going to help anything. There was absolutely no enthusiasm in my voice when I said, "Ah, actually, can I have a large black coffee with one sugar please?" "Not that I'm not turned on as all fuck by a woman who appreciates black coffee," he started, making me jerk back suddenly at the bluntness of that comment and the dose of profanity I wasn't accustomed to hearing in my sleepy hometown. "But if you're only one day into a break-up, you're allowed to have some full fat chocolate concoction to indulge a bit. I promise from here on out I won't make you anything even half as food-gasm-ing as this." He leaned across the counter, getting close enough that I could see golden flecks in his warm brown eyes. "Honey, not even if you beg," he added and, if I wasn't mistaken, there was absolutely some kind of sexually-charged edge to his words. "Say yes," he added, lips tipping up at one corner. "Alright, yes," I agreed, knowing I would love every last drop of whatever he made me and likely punish myself with an extra long run for it too. "Good girl," he said as he turned away. And there was not, was absolutely not some weird fluttering feeling in my belly at that. Nope. That would be completely insane. "Okay, I got you one of everything!" my mother said, coming up beside me and pressing the box into my hands. She even tied it with her signature (and expensive, something I had tried to talk her out of many times over the years when she was struggling financially) satin bow. I smiled at her, knowing that sometimes, there was nothing liked baked goods from your mother after a hard day. I was just lucky enough to have a mother who was a pastry chef. "Thanks, Mom," I said, the words heavy. I wasn't just thanking her for the sweets, but for letting me come home, for not asking questions, for not making it seem like even the slightest inconvenience. She gave me a smile that said she knew exactly what I meant. "You have nothing to thank me for." She meant that too. Coming from a family that, when they found out she was knocked up as a teen, had kicked her out and disowned her, she made it clear all my life that she was always there, no matter what I did with my life, no matter how high I soared, or how low I crashed. Her arms, her heart, and her door were always open for me. "Alright. A large mocha frappe with full fat milk, full fat whipped cream, and both a mocha and caramel drizzle. It's practically dessert masked as coffee," Brantley said, making my attention snap to where he was pushing what was an obnoxiously large frappe with whipped cream that was towering out of the dome that the pink and sage straw stuck out of. "Don't even think about it, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head as I reached for my wallet. "Thank you," I smiled, and found that it was a genuine one as I reached for it and, in a move that was maybe not brilliant on my part, took a sip. And proceeded to let out an almost porn-star worthy groan of pure, delicious pleasure. Judging by the way Brant's smile went a little wicked, his thoughts ran along the same lines as well.

I need to warm up,” she blurted, and plunged in without another word, playing as softly as she could. Once she had started seeing the notes in her mind again, when muscle memory had her fingers reaching for those familiar chords, she began. It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she’d played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she’d gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of what she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan’s eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

If she gets caught and punished by the God King…it’ll break Ashura’s heart again.

Bury all your secrets in my skin Come away with innocence and leave me with my sins The air around me still feels like a cage And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again So if you love me let me go And run away before I know My heart is just too dark to care I can't destroy what isn? t there Deliver me into my fate If I'm alone I cannot hate I don't deserve to have you Ooh, my smile was taken long ago If I can change I hope I never know I still press your letters to my lips And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss I couldn't face a life without your lights But all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fight So save your breath, I will not care I think I made it very clear You couldn't hate enough to love Is that supposed to be enough? I only wish you weren't my friend Then I could hurt you in the end I never claimed to be a saint Ooh, my own was banished long ago It took the death of hope to let you go So break yourself against my stones And spit your pity in my soul You never needed any help You sold me out to save yourself And I won't listen to your shame You ran away, you? re all the same Angels lie to keep control Ooh, my love was punished long ago If you still care don't ever let me know If you still care don't ever let me know

Distractions In Prayer Ah dearest Lord! I cannot pray, My fancy is not free; Unmannerly distractions come, And force my thoughts from Thee. The world that looks so dull all day Glows bright on me at prayer, And plans that ask no thought but then Wake up and meet me there. All nature one full fountain seems Of dreamy sight and sound, Which, when I kneel, breaks up its deeps, And makes a deluge round. Old voices murmur in my ear, New hopes start to life, And past and future gaily blend In one bewitching strife. My very flesh has restless fits; My changeful limbs conspire With all these phantoms of the mind My inner self to tire. I cannot pray; yet, Lord! Thou knowst The pain it is to me To have my vainly struggling thoughts Thus torn away from Thee. Sweet Jesus! teach me how to prize These tedious hours when I, Foolish and mute before Thy Face, In helpless worship lie. Prayer was not meant for luxury, Or selfish pastime sweet; It is the prostrate creature’s place At his Creator’s Feet. Had I, dear Lord! no pleasure found But in the thought of Thee, Prayer would have come unsought, and been A truer liberty. Yet Thou art oft most present, Lord! In weak distracted prayer: A sinner out of heart with self Most often finds Thee there. For prayer that humbles sets the soul From all illusions free, And teaches it how utterly, Dear Lord! it hangs on Thee. The heart, that on self-sacrifice Is covetously bent, Will bless Thy chastening hand that makes Its prayer its punishment. Holy Saviour! why should I complain And why fear aught but sin? Distractions are but outward things; Thy peace dwells far within. These surface-troubles come and go, Like rufflings of the sea; The deeper depth is out of reach To all, my God, but Thee. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, 1814-1863

She has a point,” Caleb’s voice came from the shadows behind the massive Dragon who was taking all of my attention and I turned my head to find him, Seth and Max all watching this exchange with interest. That would explain the stars not smiting us or whatever other bullshit they might want to do. Though I was guessing I should really stop touching him…not that I did. “You did this to…help him?” Darius asked like he couldn’t understand why the fuck I’d do that and I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m only an asshole like, ninety percent of the time,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. “The other ten percent I’m a fucking saint. So yes, I did it to help him. Turns out I only hold two members of your family in low regard.” “You pushed my brother out of a fucking window,” he growled. “I would have caught him with my air magic if I had to. Besides, this way Daddy Acrux can’t try and claim he was in on it. It’s a genius plan and you know it. Plus, your mom told me to post it so I don’t have to explain myself to you.” “Mother?” Darius scoffed. “She hardly notices anything beyond appearances. The last thing she’d encourage is a scandal like this. She-” “That’s not true, she loves you, she just…” I trailed off as the deal I’d made with Catalina stayed my tongue. I’d sworn not to tell a soul about the way I’d freed herfrom Lionel’s Dark Coercion and I wasn’t going to take even more punishment from the stars by breaking my word. “Just what?” Darius demanded. Phoenix fire burned hot beneath my skin and my palms twitched against his chest as a thought occurred to me. One I really should have considered before now if I hadn’t been so caught up with studying, the shadows, cheer practice and just plain old pining away for this monster before me to think of it. “Do you trust me?” I asked, my fingers shifting on his skin just enough to draw his attention. “Why?” “I want to try something. Something I did for your mother. But you’ll have to stay still while I do it.” Darius looked at me for a long moment and a faint tremor in the ground beneath my feet let me know that the stars had realised just how close we were to one another. Even with company they didn’t like us to touch each other, though it seemed to take them a lot longer to notice if we were. Darius exhaled angrily but his eyes shifted back as he managed to rein in some of his temper, their deep brown colour ringed with black once again. “I trust you,” he growled and the other Heirs muttered something behind him, but I didn’t care to hear it because there had been a sincerity in his words which reached out and touched my soul. He meant it. For whatever reason, despite everything we’d been through, he was still able to put his trust in me. I offered him the hint of a smile as my Phoenix fire reared up to the surface of my skin before I guided it into his flesh where I touched him. His muscles tightened beneath my hands, his eyes widening as he looked at me but he didn’t pull back, waiting as the liquid fire tore beneath his skin and sought out any signs of Lionel placing restrictions on his soul. ... “You…” Darius lifted me into his arms, staring at me with wide eyes like he didn’t even have words to explain what I’d just done for him. ,,, “She…I think she…but I don’t understand how-” “Phoenix fire burns through bullshit,” I supplied. “I just released him from every Dark Coercion spell Lionel has ever placed on him.” The Heirs all turned to stare at me like I’d just told them an alien named Clive lived up my butt and I sighed as I leaned my head back against Caleb’s shoulder. I felt like I’d just gone ten rounds in the ring against a Dragon with toothache. My eyes were hooded already and I was pretty sure that if we stood here much longer I’d fall asleep. “Thank you, Roxy,” Darius breathed and the look he was giving me made my heart do a weird squeezing kind of thing as I bit down on my bottom lip. (Tory POV)

She said he had seven times seven years before she claimed him, before he had to join her Under the Mountain. If he wanted to break her curse, he need only find a human girl willing to marry him. But not any girl- a human with ice in her heart, with hatred for our kind. A human girl willing to kill a faerie.' The ground rocked beneath me, and I was grateful for the wall I leaned against. 'Worse, the faerie she killed had to be one of his men, sent across the wall by him like lambs to slaughter. The girl could only be brought here to be courted if she killed one of his men in an unprovoked attack- killed him for hatred alone, just as Jurian had done to Clythia... So he could understand her sister's pain.' ... 'It was all a cruel joke, a clever punishment, to Amarantha. You humans loathe and fear faeries so much it would be impossible- impossible for the same girl who slaughtered a faerie in cold blood to them fall in love with one. But the spell on Tamlin could only be broken if she did just that before the forty-nine years were over- if that girl said to his face that she loved him, and meant it with her entire heart. Amarantha knows humans are preoccupied with beauty, and thus bound the masks to all of our faces, to his face, so it would be more difficult to find a girl willing to look beyond the mask, beyond his faerie nature, and to the soul beneath. Then she bound us so we couldn't say a word about the curse. Not a single word. We could hardly tell you a thing about our world, about our fate. He couldn't tell you- none of us properly could. The lies about the blight- that was the best he could do, the best we could all do. That I can tell you now... it means the game is over, to her.

You were the first man to break my heart, and I guess it’s fitting. But you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to punish us both. I came here to collect your fortune, but I would give every dime back for just a few minutes with you. Just to tell you I may not ever understand you fully, but in discovering what you did, I felt like your daughter for the first time in my life.

That was the challenge now: to figure out whether God was still with him in the silence or whether He had vanished from his life for good. Ferguson didn’t have the heart to commit a knowing act of cruelty, he couldn’t bring himself to lie or cheat or steal, he had no inclination to hurt or offend his mother, but within the narrow scope of misdeeds he was capable of, he understood that the only way to answer the question was to break his end of the bargain as often as he could, to defy the injunction to follow the holy commandments and then wait for God to do something bad to him, something nasty and personal that would serve as a clear sign of intended retribution—a broken arm, an attack of boils on his face, a rabid dog biting off a chunk of his leg. If God failed to punish him, that would prove He had indeed disappeared when the voice stopped talking, and since God was supposedly everywhere, in every tree and blade of grass, in every gust of wind and human feeling, it made no sense that He could disappear from one place and still be everywhere else. He necessarily had to be with Ferguson because He was in all places at the same time, and if He was absent from the place where Ferguson happened to be, that could only mean that He was in no place and had never been in any place at all, that He in fact had never existed and the voice Ferguson had taken for the voice of God had been none other than his own voice speaking to him in an inner conversation with himself.

I make each day a weary task, To close my heart to him, as then! And now, as punishment but ask It break, and let him in again.

Tell me, does it seem worth it to you to suffer this punishment for a rag?” “Without question,” Steldor forcefully answered, and cheers rolled like thunder through the Hytanicans who had gathered to watch, sending chills down my spine. Rava’s lip curled into a sneer and she walked behind him, motioning to the Cokyrians holding the ropes to pull them tight, spreading his arms wide. With a swift and practiced motion, she raised the whip and brought it down hard upon his broad back, drawing blood with her first stroke, and gasps reverberated almost as loudly as had the cheers. “Is it worth it?” she demanded. “Yes,” he managed to answer, gritting his teeth against the pain. She struck him twice more, and though I could hardly bear it, I forced myself to watch, the muscles of my back spasming as each stroke landed. “Is it worth it?” “Yes!” Once more she struck, and again, until the ragged flesh and sinew of Steldor’s back was coated with blood--blood that flowed so heavily it ran down his sides. Women in the crowd now wept openly, while men cursed and shouted. I took in a shaky breath, knowing only one lash remained. Steldor would survive, and so would I. So would we all. Rava brought the whip down on Steldor for the sixth time, and his head hung forward. Was he still conscious? Or were the ropes around his wrists the only things keeping him from collapsing? Evidently wondering the same, Rava approached him and reached down, grasping a handful of his nearly black hair to pull his head up. His eyes were open, but barely focused. “Tell me, boy. Is it worth it?” she said in a near whisper. He smiled, revealing teeth smeared with blood from biting his tongue to hold back screams. “Yes.” Rage marred Rava’s face at her inability to break him, and she brutally shoved his head down. Backing up, she uncoiled the whip that was supposed to have retired, and flayed him again, more viciously than before. Steldor cried out this time, the sound tearing at my heart, and when the soldiers dropped the ropes, he crumpled forward. Knowing he had to be in tremendous pain, I was thankful for the respite the darkness would provide. Silence now reigned around us--no voices, no movements, hardly any breathing. It felt like the world had temporarily been turned to stone. Rava handed the whip to another soldier and stalked back toward the Bastion without a glance or word for anyone. She was cruel and heartless and arrogant, and hatred for her boiled within me as I watched the Cokyrians remove the ropes from Steldor’s wrists. They hauled him up by his arms and dragged him inside, leaving a crimson trail on the white walk. The rest of us followed, and I glanced at Cannan, who had managed more stoicism during the proceeding than had I. He had been witness to greater brutality during both wars with Cokyri, but I knew he would have willingly taken his son’s punishment in his stead. After seeing him in the cave, holding and protecting Steldor when we’d all feared the King’s death, I knew that beneath his strength and bravery, he ached.

Contrary to what we have been taught to believe about religion, our heavenly Father has a heart to save and forgive rather than to punish or scold. When he forgives, he also forgets the wrong we’ve done (Hebrews 10:17). As we repent of our ways and turn from our sin, he covers over our sin. He doesn’t lose sight of who he created us to be, even on the darkest days. Our fallible minds can’t even fathom a love that doesn’t record each wrong done to it. Imagine a love that treats others according to their worth in Christ instead of the mistakes they’ve made. We are called to live in that same kind of love. We are called to model this same love and forgiveness to those who do us wrong. We are called to be living proof of God’s love. The apostle Paul wrote, “Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you” (Colossians 3:13). Listen—we live in such a broken, offended, and hurting world. We create walls and unloving boundaries with each other, especially after someone has messed up or has committed a heinous act toward us. We build walls to protect ourselves from future pain. It makes sense to respond this way because we don’t want to feel pain. But unforgiveness is poison. It hurts the one who drinks it. Love keeps no record of the wrong done to it (1 Corinthians 13:5). Imagine if we sinned against God, then came back to him with a convicted heart and he had a wall up with us. Or because we had done so much wrong, he created a boundary to protect himself from us. That sounds strange, right? Pretty hard to imagine since that is so outside of his character. Should it not sound just as strange as a behavior coming from us, since we are called to imitate him (Ephesians 5:1)? No, we are not God, but we are certainly called to love like him. In fact, it’s a commandment to love your neighbor as yourself (Matthew 22:39).

Sabbath-breaking Punished 32Now while the Israelites were in the wilderness, they found a man who was gathering wood on the Sabbath day.‡ 33Those who found him gathering wood brought him to Moses and Aaron and to all the congregation; 34and they put him in custody, because it had not been explained [by God] what should be done to him.‡ 35Then the LORD said to Moses, “The man shall certainly be put to death. All the congregation shall stone him with stones outside the camp.”‡ 36So all the congregation brought him outside the camp and stoned him to death with stones, just as the LORD had commanded Moses. 37The LORD said to Moses, 38“Speak to the sons of Israel and tell them to make for themselves tassels on the hems of their garments throughout their generations, and put a cord of blue on the tassel of each hem.‡ 39“It shall be a tassel for you to look at and remember all the commandments of the LORD, to do them, so that you do not follow after [the desires of] your own heart and eyes, [desires] after which you used to follow and play the prostitute,‡ 40so that you may remember to do all My commandments and be holy (set apart) to your God.‡ 41“I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt to be your God. I am the LORD your God.

is nothing like that. In real life, it’s an age-old punishment used by the most brutal regimes in history to keep even the strongest men and women “in their place”: subjugated and helpless and humiliated and terrified. I’ve been in that place, and I’ve learned that it’s not difficult to break the body, or the mind, or even the spirit. Nobody is stronger than pain. Once you find yourself at the mercy of another’s calculated cruelty, you very quickly lose part of yourself. As soon as the body takes over, you become animal, unthinking, instinctive, desperately trying to escape, and the part of you that was you, the part that held your pride and your heart and your strength, is lost—at least for a while, and sometimes forever.

Law and order: At level four, right and wrong are determined by a codified system of rules, impartial judges, and prescribed punishments. At this level, individuals defer judgment to properly elected or otherwise constituted authority. Right is getting a proper pay or reward for good work and a prescribed infliction of punishment for breaking the rules. Authority figures are rarely questioned; “He must be right—he is the president, the judge, the pastor, the pope.” Elementary school children operate at this level and find security, predictability, and peace in the rules. At this level, tattletales abound as children are intolerant of rule breakers and demand fairness, which is typically some imposed punishment. The black-and-white thinking of this level of operation leads to fragmenting into divergent groups or cliques who share a core set of group rules and who demean and criticize those who don’t share their rules. This was ancient Israel at the time of Christ—“We have a law!” the Pharisees proclaimed, as they sought to stone Jesus for healing on the Sabbath. The Jews in Christ’s day were separatists who were intolerant of those who didn’t keep their rules and obey their rituals. This is much of our modern world too, with its codified laws, courts, prosecutors, judges, juries, and imposed punishments. Authority at this level rests in the coercive pressure of the state to bring punishment upon those who deviate from the established laws. At this level, police agencies and law enforcers are required to monitor the populace, search for breaches in the law, and inflict codified penalties. This is the first level that requires the emergence of thinking but only minimal thinking—basic indoctrination and memorization of rules. One doesn’t have to understand reasons for things. One only has to know the rules and obey them.

So do you think you’ll get a second signet?” Visia asks, breaking the silence. “Two dragons, two signets, right?” “I don’t know,” I answer, glancing back at Andarna. I actually figured because she bonded me so young and lost the ability to stop time, the signet of lightning wielding was all that I would be blessed with. But now I wonder… “Will I?” “Why are you asking me? Signets manifest according to the person wielding.” Her eyes blink gold, her black scales blending in with the darkness. “Second signets only happen when a dragon bonds a rider in the direct familial line as its previous,” Sloane says, misunderstanding Visia’s question. “But there’s an equal chance of it causing madness. From what Thoirt told me, that’s why Cruth wasn’t punished for bonding Quinn. She’s only the great-niece of her previous rider. Her signet’s more powerful but not entirely different.” “Thoirt shouldn’t be telling you matters resolved within the Empyrean,” Visia lectures, then does a double take when she glances my way. Gravity shifts. That can’t be right. That would mean— “Violet, are you okay?” Visia asks. I shake my head but say, “Yes.” How do you explain your heart is sinking past the rock floor of the cave? I take a deep breath, flex and unflex my hand as I grip the brightly glowing conduit. Andarna growls to my right, and I quickly assure her, “I’m fine.” But we both know I’m anything but fine—I’m also equally certain now isn’t the time to let my mind wander down that path.

If you are reading this page because you are seeking a powerful revenge spell that works fast with results, most likely someone has inflicted pain on you either physically, mentally, and emotionally, or all of the above. Look no where else, and get real voodoo hexes and witchcraft revenge spells that work fast cast onto your enemies for revenge with Hoodoo prophetess powerful demonic Hoodoo and Voodoo black magic revenge spells. My dark evil revenge spells work fast and Can be cast to put a hex on your enemies and make them suffer quickly in many different ways. If someone has intentionally directed negative energy your way, punish your enemy with powerful black magic revenge spells to curse them and receive justice or revenge for the trouble they have caused…better yet, make them suffer even more! Money Curse revenge Spell – cast on enemy for revenge to put a bad curse on they’re finances. with this black magic voodoo revenge spell they will begin to loose large sums of money, get fired from they’re job, if they own a business, they will not make any sales and eventually be in debt, and go broke. if they are a gambler, they will have bad luck and will always loose. ​ Loss of reputation spell – If they are popular, always in the public eye, someone in a high position, a guru, someone that people look up to…this black magic hoodoo revenge curse is cast to make them disliked by everyone. they will begin to loose confidence and be publicly humiliated, and eventually get depressed. Love revenge spells – Get revenge on a lover or an ex, and teach them a lesson for cheating, leading you on, lying, and doing things that they should not have been in secret. if someone that you loved has broken your heart and an oath. they deserve to feel pain as well with this black magic voodoo and hoodoo love revenge spell. Close their roads spell – this voodoo revenge spell is cast at the crossroads after midnight to a satanic demonic spirit to block and close all of they’re roads to opportunity. everything they do will be unsuccessful. Homeless curse – this black magic voodoo curse is cast to make someone loose they’re home, get put out of a home, and they will have no where to turn to for help. this voodoo revenge spell will make the enemy have bad luck with finding a home. Car Accident revenge spell – voodoo black magic revenge spell to cause road rage and bad car accidents. a ritual will be done to conjure a dark demonic spirit to follow the victim every time they get into a vehicle, and a dark demonic spirit will follow them and eventually cause them to have a fatal and brutal car accident. Break Dem bones spell – Black magic hoodoo revenge spell to cause accidents, to make your enemy hurt themselves and break their bones. Go insane revenge spell- Voodoo revenge spell to cause them to see and hear things that no one else can see or hear. this black magic spell is made to cause them to go insane, depressed, and suicidal. Ill health spell – make your enemy have ill health and get sick with a disease with this black magic hoodoo revenge spell. Death spell – This evil black magic haitian voodoo spell is cast to kill. the enemy will experience their death by haitian voodoo death spell, and the death will look like a natural cause. ( only specific cases will be accepted)