Author: Candid Corvid Productions

When she’d had her own someone, the nights had not seemed so long, and the days gave meaning to enthusiasm.

At least she could still return to the Garden and experience delight in nature’s laughter.

She had fought for so long to keep pushing back against the influences of psycho-logical influences programmed into her internal messaging that when the migraines came, all she could do was fight harder in anger and extreme vexation, challenging the pain.

“Though I could not change what was happening to me, I could stand up for others.”

“I am marked by this original wounding – of greater impact than my other in my childhood because of how it shook every foundation.”

Had her mother or grandparents supported her trying to protect those other children?

She couldn’t remember due to the pressures causing her memories to fold inward into convolutions.

The angry calls and accusations at doors, the implied if not direct chastisement in deztroying a dream for everyone at the clubhouse once deemed “picture perfect.”

Not surprisingly, it was the misdirected ire of the wives which did the most gossiping damage.

(Title ref to “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…”)

Maybe had she stayed with her grandparents instead of moving North with her family, the spell would have been broken sooner and she could have regained her status.

But, as with the life pattern she seemed destined to keep repeating, disruption and missed timing kept winning.

One of the most conflicting presents she remembered getting for Christmas for the holidays was a beautiful polkadotted, flared skirt party dress meant as the crowned jewel icing for any event.

Yet she had thought it the most cruel, tainted joke of at her expense, even though she could feel her grandparents’ intentions had been loving.

For she had been branded pariah, outcast.

She did not belong to the poorer society where her mother had obtained housing, and she was no longer included in highborn  because of her legacy.

Even as a child, she’d had an intolerance for predators harming innocents.

“You have such a brilliant, instinctual and natural emotional intelligence – but you need more windows in your mind for an open view.”

Shivering in pain and yesterday’s fears projected onto today and tomorrows, she tried to console herself that it was better to be alone and bear these imposed burdens, rather than be wrongly accused for crimes that she hadn’t committed.

The impression found her and emblazened its messages upon her parasympathetic empathy, thereby compelling her to see what she could not easily believe while forcing her to carry the torch for others who could not flee.

It has been said that to find the key and illuminate the lock may open cealed doorways to the soul for claiming one’s redemption.

But what awaits on the other side, and why were those doors barred in the first place?

Buried too deep and supressed by centuries of intimidation by terror tactics, memories of abuse’s atrocitities enacted against children echoed throughout spectered and darkened hallways.

“I know who the ghosts are now, mother,” whispered the child the demons stalked in occluded dreams who’s mother could not  acknowledge the truth to help and release her.

For she had also been branded and harmed by these sins.