December 1st, 2014

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December 1st, 2014

            "It started snowing last week and there was an uncomfortable feeling between Ophelia and the weather itself. It reminds her of Siberia; the snow is beautiful, and yet it holds harsh reminders of what her life used to be. What our lives used to be. She won't say anything, I know she's embarrassed that something as simple as snow can put her in a bad mood. But I get it. I convinced her to walk with me in the snow; the roads died down when the snow hit, people seem to quiet down; hibernate almost.

             It felt like we were the last two people on Earth; for an hour we were the only people out there. She grew accustomed to the snow, trusting it at last, trusting me. I promised to keep her safe a long time ago, and I'm beginning to feel as though I have carried that promise through. I can't help but look at the scars on her body and blame myself; I don't think she has noticed that every time I see them I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. It worries me that she'll catch on, and that'll she leave either to spare me of the guilt or that she'll begin to hate seeing what she can see in my eyes. That is truly the last thing I want; I don't know what I would do without her. I plan on making this better, I don't want to hate myself when I see her scars. I need to see past them."


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