A/N: Because of the phenomenal response I got last chapter, I was extremely motivated and excited to write more, so I have an update ready way, way, way early. I got five followers practically overnight! You guys have no idea how much that means to me! Like, really! Thank you so so much!
Also, I met British people at my work yesterday!!! I totally freaked out and they just kept laughing because they thought it was absolutely hilarious how excited I was, but guys THEY WERE FRIGGIN BRITISH!!!!! alkdfjakdjglkajfjkadhga;lk;dfj
Dedication goes to gissel13 for fanning and for the 'all-in-one-sitting' reads of Breathless!
gissell13> you made my life! you read it all in one sitting?!?!?! I just- thank you sooooo much
Now you guys can read! :p
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
Blessings and Curses
Books are beautiful and I’ve read more than I can count. For escape, to feel, for hope. The stories always so different in their tellings and their voices, the authors each strive to tell their own story in between the words they write. Also wanting to hook, pull, shock, and intrigue. Wanting to impress and please.
But there’s one thing that always got me, frustrated me to no end. Because I just didn’t get it, didn’t understand: the characters didn’t communicate. I could never understand why the boy didn’t just tell the girl that he was in love with her, why the girl didn’t tell him how she felt as well, why the teen didn’t tell his parents about his strange powers, why his parents didn’t tell him about his past everything would be fixed if one person just said something!
I get it now. There’s the fear: the fear of rejection, of disbelief, of betrayal, of hate. And then, if you somehow overcome all those factors, the why comes into effect. Why would it be important to tell someone about how exactly they felt when they brushed against a stranger? Why would a certain particular friend need to know about that obscure classmate in the back of their class? Why would a boyfriend’s friend need to know about that one girl in that one nightmare they’d had weeks ago?
Just like reality, the characters don’t always know what information needs to be told, even if they do get over their fears. Only the reader ever knows, ever sees the big picture, the reader or the author.
~Roza Fallow
*6:27am May 11, 2005*
“Roza, what, exactly, are you doing?” the nearly ten-year-old girl tried to make her voice as in inquisitive as possible, without sounding like she wanted anything. Usually Sarah just barged forward without stopping to think of other’s reactions; she had an impatience for life, a despair that made asking questions feel burdensome. But today, Sarah was being uniquely careful.
Sarah didn’t want to jeopardize her chances of retrieving the source of the smell she’d woken up to. A smell that was known to melt even the hardest of hearts.
Bacon.
“Sar-aah! Shhhh! Not so loud! You’ll wake her up,” the ends of this little girl’s hair dipped in syrup as her brow scrunched in concentration. Looking around the small kitchen, Sarah would have thought a small bomb had exploded, or rather, a particularly determined and eccentric little friend. The oven beeped a warning, and the small creature rushed to pull something out, the oven mitts dwarfing her petite hands.
As the scent of warm cinnamon hit her nostrils, Sarah had to hold back a moan of ecstasy. Unlike the woman herself, Roza was true to Mrs. Fallow’s Italian heritage; she had been cooking since she was five years old, or so Mr. Fallow liked to say.
