Falling for Sin

No distractions

I remember reading somewhere, in one of those self-healing books Jaqueline got me, that writing could be a release for pent-up emotions. I had only been here for two weeks and a half, but I missed her so much.

It seemed like such a cliché at the time, the idea that spilling your thoughts onto paper could somehow make you feel lighter, freer. But as I sit here, the silence of my room pressing in around me, I can't help but wonder if there's some truth to it.

The negative emotions, the ones that twist and churn inside me, they need an outlet. And maybe, the act of writing them down is like opening a valve, letting the steam hiss out slowly instead of building up pressure until it explodes. It's worth a try, isn't it? To take these feelings of frustration, of loneliness, of confusion, and give them form and shape in words.

So, I reach for a sheet of paper and I let the pen hover over the blank page for a moment before I let it touch down, and I start to write. With each word, I can feel a tiny piece of the weight lifting, drifting away like ink on the breeze. And the first person I could think of was my mother.

Dear Mama,

The war had etched its scars upon my soul, and I often found solace in the quiet moments—the ones when the screams of the wounded faded, and the battlefield felt like a distant memory. It was during one such twilight hour that your words resurfaced, like a whispered secret carried by the wind.

"Dahlia," you'd said, your eyes reflecting both sorrow and wisdom, "beware the allure of sin. It wears many masks—some beguiling, others menacing. But they all lead to the same precipice."
I was young then, my heart untested by the world's complexities. You, with your grace and quiet strength, were my guiding star.

The war has left its indelible mark upon my soul—the blood-soaked bandages, the whispered prayers, the faces of the fallen etched into my memory. But I refuse to be a victim.
No, I am Dahlia—the war nurse who stitched together shattered bodies and fractured souls. And now, as the world teeters on the edge of chaos, I find myself drawn to another path—one that leads through the shadows, where loyalty and danger intertwine.

Aunt Diane—the woman who wields power like a sword, whose eyes hold secrets darker than the night. She moves through the city like a phantom, her influence stretching beyond the alleys and bars. And I, with my trembling hands and haunted heart, yearn for that strength.

But Diane offers something more—a different kind of survival. The war taught me to heal, but the mafia teaches me to thrive. To wield power, to navigate treacherous waters, to become more than a victim of the circumstances of war.

"Sin," she'd whisper, her eyes unyielding, "is a currency. Spend it wisely."

And so, I stand at the threshold—the war nurse seeking solace, the reluctant pawn in a dangerous game. Aunt Diane extends her hand, and I hesitate. Can I embrace this darkness without losing myself? Can I stitch together my fractured soul with even more darkness?
I don't know, but I do know from now on, I'll choose my battles, mend what I can, and let go when necessary. For in this dance of shadows, where loyalty and danger intertwine, I'll find my strength.

Love, Dahlia.
_

The page before me is no longer blank; it's filled with my handwriting, a tangible testament to the turmoil that was swirling inside me just moments ago. I put the paper away slowly, almost reverently, as if by doing so, I'm sealing away the negative emotions within its page. I can't help but smile feeling thankful for a brief moment of relief.