s*t*a*r*s 4 - pt 53

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Can you hear the evil laughter?  I figured you might.....

S*t*a*r*s – 4

 Seeking Answers


I’ve been looking

For all the places I began

Seeking who planted my seeds of doubt

The reason I ponder

If I’m good enough

For anyone other than myself

What I hadn’t realized

Was I was already found

All I had to do was look within

To see the person I’d blossomed to be

I weathered every storm

Known to mankind

Stood strong against the wind

That tormented me

Dug myself out

Of the avalanche that swept over me

Swam to the only shore

Watched as Noah’s Arc drifted by

Nothing can stop me

I’ve weathered it all

So I seek for answers no more

Knowing now where I come from

Where I belong



            The flesh of her chest pulses and then sends a hot zap of electricity through her as she sleeps, her back arches.  Memories.  Not of those of her powers, not visions, but real memories shift and slither into her dreams, lighting them with grief and pain. 

She sits up in her bed, the covers a tangled mess at her feet.  “Spencer,” whispers Rylee hotly.  She is in her own bed in Hawaii, her body shivers from the sheen of sweat that covers her lithe body.  She tumbles out of bed, her knees feel like someone has pulled the pins from them, she stumbles and makes her way to the small patio. She can’t breathe.  The ache doubles as the fresh air fills her lungs.  Spencer will never draw breath again because of her.  She’ll never laugh again, never sing again, never touch her again.  All because she’d been unable to see how things had happened.  How unpracticed was she?  Could she have found a way to see the future better?  More practice?  More studying up on what she could do?  She doesn’t know. 

Her power is right there at her fingertips, she can feel the ripple of power there, glowing a shifty red under her grip on the railing.  No, she won’t use it, she tells herself, she can’t.  She fears all she’ll see is the emptiness of her life, the vast open edge of her life and what it will be without Spencer at her side. 

            She white-knuckle grips the railing until the shakes start to taper off.  Her right hand pulls up the tee shirt that is wet and slick with sweat, on her right hip is the light blue shimmers of finger there – an electric tattoo from her love.  There is another, right near her left breast but she can’t stand to look at that one.  Above her heart, the energy that kick started her heart had come in through that handprint, had brought her back to life.  She looks at it now, remembering all the fleeting touches, all the agony over not being able to touch.  Her own betrayal.  They have faded, but now seem to shimmer in the pale light of the crescent moon.  Her fingers trace it, like she might a lover’s face, lovingly and with longing that digs into her soul. 

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