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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
She never thought she could forgive.

Submitted: September 19, 2006

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Submitted: September 19, 2006



The tide had risen high and crashed back into the ocean as if trying to wash impurities away. The wind whipped and bit at her long chestnut hair and at her smooth ivory skin that despite the cold seemed to have instant warmth.

Angled cat like eyes watched in silence and remorseless that at the glow of the sun, green melted into amber. her golden skin was shimmering, was beautiful against the contrast of her moss green shirt and body shaping jeans. Her lips were curved to look soft voracious and generous, that lead down to a defined chin. High elegant cheekbones were evident and added more to her face, and the small nose that hung above the avid lips complimented them well.

She never spoke a word, only to one that once held her heart. That was when she was young and naïve, and of course thought there was something called “true love” and “happily ever after.” The man who had cast her aside like an unwanted toy hurt, yes, and though she still sees him everyday she walked into her aunt’s inn, she could prove to him--as she already proven to herself--that she had grown up and was no longer the young woman that was easily manipulate.

It had been three years that day, that she had become a woman, and wanted woman, and yet she never had time for them. She was a talented photographer and, of course, great writer, one of the qualities that helped her form the contract between them. She could accent his career greater, being her contacts, and he would show her want she thought was out there. But at last, she believed she was in love--and he too--she convinced herself that she didn’t need to hear that he loved her, those words were not suppose to be needed. Yet, she herself threw away her pride and said them without and regret. She was not a woman of regret.

So she did exactly what he had advised. Their time together was nothing more than experience and would do nothing more than serve as a reference--a guide--to what to look for in this life, in what she fooled herself into wanting, thinking that what she wanted real. Now, she could know, she suppose she could thank him for showing her the truth the real truth about what was out there.

The break up was nasty, but clean and well organized. She had arrived at his home as usual, to find him dressed up, and casual looking as usual, able to look professional without trying, when she had walked in on him and another woman. Of course, she was outraged to just think that everything she thought she had with him was nothing more than a fling to him, and an illusion. He had looked up, every part of his masculine, and Irish writer--the ice blue eyes, the jet black hair that had woman falling to his knees--she found those elegant fingers that could created something beautiful and masterpiece or tragedy or create a beautiful pleasure within someone, on another woman. But she would not play the part of the forgotten fiancée, and walked in smiling. She gave the other woman a disproving frown, turning eyes upon Roarke, asking in a sultry voice she never knew she possessed what fling was he having now and with what companion.

She watched the smug shock, then anger flash across her face, when she calmly sent the woman another frown and dropped the ring from her finger next to the woman. “ Have a nice life. Really…and when he dumps you, don’t forget what I tell you now, his is lo que vales, leftover.” She turned her attention to Roarke once more. “!se te Saluda! Should’ve remembered to pensa`rse lo dos veces.” With that she turned and walked away, his constant shouts of “ te amo” after her. Clean, thoughtful, and impersonal. Of course, he had spread rumors about the relationship, and when people walked pass, there was only one think they were thinking. She’s a whore.

She could have easily corrected them, or used the truth of the mouth, yet when she thought about it, it seemed too childish for her taste--and to her surprise, his. Then after around a month, she finally got around to clean out the box they used for passing back and forth the collaboration piece to send out. She liked to call it, “ dejante en duda”, and even those times she told him what it meant, she wasn’t sure whether or not he could tell his hands from his ass. But that was all in the past now, and nothing more, yet she still didn’t have the heart to trash their hard work. Her part was great, all smooth, yet his was like the second half to complete the whole thing. She was shocked--and astonished--to say that without his work to support her piece, it would all fall apart.

That’s exactly what happened. Their relationship had fallen apart through cause and effect. If one of them no longer cared to love each other, the relationship, or the other for that matter, was doomed to fall apart. For seven years she had known Roarke, and in that instant that she realized this was all a game, like one of the story they’ve written, and that she had never see his eyes so warm and cold all in an moment. There was something about that smooth, man with elegant eyebrows easily raised when he objected or questioned something, and the casual lips that could let words of ardor and covet spill forth, or the arctic invectives that nipped like venom at someone’s heart. But then what would someone who grew up on the sadistic side of town where if you weren’t adroit and smooth orator, you’d be eradicated like some stray dog. That was the way it was, and when all those she saw dead, begging either to be killed, or not be killed, her heart once cried for those lost souls to return home.

Things such as salvation, and peace were only found through S and M, or through one of the ecstasies and highs of the underground. Deal smart, your dealer might like you enough to continue to feed you your weekly, screw them over, they bring out the laced stuff and implement you just as easily and coldly as they breath. That was the stuff she drew up around, yet when she was young, she kept her heart warm and open. Now, it was cold, rock solid, and merciless. That was the way her hometown taught her. From the ghetto, where to make a living you had to sell your body to feed you children from the great grandmothers down the generation only knew prostitute and be the gangster’s girl. No one knew better, unless you were one of the lucky few whose life actually meant something to their world, you made it out to do something with it.

She made it out, and never will go back, either will she have--if ever--her children there and their children there. Her roots were not going to be where her children return, they were going to be something, she was sure of that. Even if she couldn’t do something with the life she had now, she was determined to make sure they made something of themselves.

Now as she watched and looked over the tide, she realized that she was wrong with her concept of everything. Everything wasn’t after her, but rather she was against it. The heart--period--wasn’t made it be cold and unfeeling, because even if she said that her heart was rock solid, rocks could be melted and changed into something else, sometimes greater, sometimes weaker, but it’ll always have its foundation. Her foundation was the dirty streets she grew up in, pick pocketing, dodging police, smuggling supplies, and made messenger, she could always be better, always have her foundation to make herself a better person.

And now she could face Roarke, and know even if she hadn’t gotten completely over him, that she was mature enough--woman enough--to forgive him and herself for what they were. Imperfect. And now she could forgive everything, but never forget to not make the same mistake again. Now, she knew, the world was no longer unforgiving as she watched the tide rising and falling to wash away the impurities.

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