Dying Moments

A woman, standing in her home in the dark, dressed in a nightgown. A man enters her home in the dark of night and raises a revolver to her chest. He shoots. The cylinder releases six bullets and each sinks into her torso. Her body hits the floor and warmth leaves her body like the blood that pools beneath her. Each wound is a hole that shatters the image of what was once whole. Now it’s true. She is broken. She isn’t enough; and the darkness that’s creeping and taking over is validation. Right before she is overcome and air leaves her lungs for the last time, she thinks she imagines the smallest light. She hasn’t the strength enough to open her eyes or attempt to move. She hasn’t enough fight left in her; she wasn’t enough to begin with. Hasn’t enough. Isn’t enough. Never enough. But the light grows and it nears her. It joins her, bleeding, on the floor and she can feel its warmth. She feels the light overpowering the darkness. She feels the heat as it enters each wound. Each hole is filled with light, with warmth. She hears the words that answer her frustrated and scrambled thoughts. “I am…I am…I AM. I am ENOUGH.” That’s when she is whole again. That’s when healing comes.



Standing on a platform after fighting and wrestling with the person you loved most. Your partner–now gone. You tried to grab hold, but they maneuvered and slipped through your grasp. You’re left standing, scarred and bruised from the struggle, alone on the platform, and anyone that walks by might see. They might see the why’s. Because on that platform, the light hits you just right and it’s so unforgiving. It highlights the why’s in ways you didn’t think possible…and now everyone can see that you weren’t good enough. It’s visible that what you have to offer is a sad, pathetic, excuse for worthiness…so of course you weren’t chosen. Of course you were left standing there. Breathing heavily, first in fear, now in defiance, your stance moves from one of vulnerability and offense, to an angry and bitter defense. “Yes, I’m broken! Yes, I’m imperfect, what, you’re not?!” The words are a rage filled cry that come from a depth you’d never acknowledged you had. As your thoughts quiet, and the adrenaline dissipates, you realize your ragged breaths are not the only ones present. There is a slow and steady breathing beside you. How long it’s been there, you have no idea. Deep and calm, just hearing it brings your pulse rate to a slower rhythm…and reason comes to you. He too, has visible scars, though healed over time. The more you look at His scars, the less yours ache. His stance is neither offensive nor defensive, just confident. You feel the desire to adjust your own. Your breathing slows to match His pace. His confidence becomes your own. His presence and the look on His face imply that whatever happens next, you are not alone on the platform.

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