One and only warning: This book contains religion, catholic guilt, sex addiction, drug abuse, graphic sexual content and heavy violence. Read at your own discretion.
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"I am a priest, Anna. A child of god. You are a temptation," He whispered out, h...
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One Week Later.
I sat on the porch, enjoying the breeze of the mid-day while the sun glowed over the trees. Someone New by Hozier lulled in the speakers of my phone as I bobbed my head carefully, mindlessly daydreaming to myself in the scenario of this someone knew where I was the main character of a movie, maybe clumsy and ditzy, maybe happier and smiled more. I found myself snapping out of my daydream for a moment just to sing along to the chorus of the song softly while my legs kicked back and forth.
I was doing better, I thought. The medicine was really helping, maybe it was too soon to tell, or maybe it was the placebo. I didn't question it. The last few nights I hadn't had any nightmares, for the most part anyways. I still went to sleep in fear, but Harry had been staying home more often to be with me. Especially before I fell asleep. It'd been nice.
Since me and Gracie had painted that day, I took it up as a therapy between my real therapy sessions. My next session wasn't until two weeks from now. It was over zoom. I thanked them mentally for not messing this schedule up like the first time. In the midst of the crappy paintings that laid around the house, there were two people who were having to step over the canvas' that laid everywhere. (Me and Harry.) I didn't mind it. He didn't mind it until he found himself tripping over one a few days ago and almost fell flat to his face.
"Darling, I love you're being creative, but please. I almost fell."
"Sorry, baby, I ran out of storage in the closet."
He tried to be kind about it. I appreciated that. I imagined when he opened the closet door that it would be like a cartoon where an ocean of things swept him across the room. Instead the closet was so full that none of the canvas' would even budge. A hundred percent of them all sucked, but they also had an emotional meaning to my trauma so I kept them. I didn't want to say I was entering a hoarder era for myself, but it seemed like I was.
On the day that Harry finally put his foot through one that was drying, accidentally I might add, he turned to me in a frustrated yet sympathetic way for ruining not only my painting, but his shoes that were new, he offered the idea of hanging them up in the spare room. We had a spare room, I don't know why I never used it to paint or use my creative outlet. Sometimes I dreamed of having someone living in that room and I didn't want to taint it with the darkness of what came out of these paintings sometimes. Almost like putting negative energy into the air and never saging it to cleanse.
Whether it be a roommate, perhaps a kid...
I didn't want to touch the room.
But I didn't voice that of course.
That day was fun, anyway. I drank a bottle of wine while Harry stayed sober and we started to dig out the painted canvas that was buried into the closet and started to hang them up. It was a lot of work, I sweat a bit from the alcohol that naturally heated my body while Harry was humming to the tune of not having to fear for his life, tripping on them anymore, that is.
