The scab was finally coming off. It didn't hurt much any more. The greens and blues of the ink beneath my skin were swirling iridescent reminders of what had happened that night. How can something so beautiful resurrect such terror? Every time I looked at the inside of my left wrist I was going to be forced to remember it all over again.
Owen had no right to call me. Anyone that can dump a girl in a text message, (a TEXT MESSAGE!) can't just stroll back in and take up where he left off with no more of an explanation than "I made a mistake, Baby," So why can't I resist the warm breath of a whispered nothing that gently blows my hair like down feathers around my ear?
How I got from his arms to the back of that van being held down and branded with a dragonfly tattoo is something I go over and over again in my mind. I still can't believe it. But there's no time to try and make sense of it. They will be coming for me. I have to keep that insect covered. I have to keep it hidden and not take the chance of one of them recognizing me. They are everywhere and they all know the sign so keeping my secret and saving my life is not going to be an easy task.
An exercise in intertwined minds, this blog is the creation of amateur writers who are taking turns writing chapters of an ongoing story. The idea is to read what comes before and then, when it's your turn, write what flows from your head. There is no rhyme or reason, and the story may never end, but it's about twisting the plot as it goes along. An exercise in visualization, character development, imagery and plot development.
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