The one time Nick and I got drunk on some aged whiskey someone brought us as housewarming gift, we talked about her all through the night. There were a lot of tears and shared memories, but surprisingly, not a single shred of bitterness between us. I think that’s partially because he doesn’t know the truth… at least, not all of it. I haven’t ever had the heart to tell Nick that by the time she died, his feelings were unrequited. I think the news would crush him.
She’d promised me “to be continued”, but never lived to keep her promise. But it doesn’t really matter. None of that matters. Her life was about so much more than who she loved. When people hear her story, we want them to hear about who she was, what she did, who she died to protect. And she lived and died for all of us. True to form, she went for the heroic ending.
I hate her for that. Fucking hate her. But I still fucking love her. And maybe I always will.
On a brisk April morning, I sit at a typewriter by the window, staring out over the streets of Williamsburg. I should be editing an article for next month’s GO Magazine, but I can’t bring myself to do so. Ideally, I’d like to work on a new poem, but even sitting in front of my new typewriter won’t convince the words to flow. I can’t explain why I’m blocked. Maybe I just have nothing to say.
I turn my head at the sound of keys jingling in the lock, and raise my eyebrows at the sweaty Nick that bursts through the door. He rushes over to me, breathing heavily, and asks, “Have you seen the Post this morning?”
“Shouldn’t you be in class?,” I ask.
“That’s not important! Have you seen it?”
“No. Why?”
“A tsunami hit the Philippines-“
“Shocker.”
“-and not a single person died.”
“Whoop de doo. Is that what passes for news these days?”
Nick waves the newspaper in his hands frantically, and says, “That’s not what the article focuses on.”
“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the main focus?”
“Over half of the victims described a savior who fought back the wave before it could cause any damage. They’re calling it a miracle.”
I roll my eyes, and turn back to my typewriter. “Cool story, bro. Again, how is that news?”
In response, Nick just throws the newspaper down on the typewriter, where I have no choice but to look at the photo on the cover. And I gasp; I can finally see why he’s freaking out.
Barely visible, between two buildings on the beach, is a tiny figure with wings.
END OF BOOK THREE
Acknowledgments
I would like to take a moment to recognize all of the people who have made this book possible. Because it’s a myth that books are made by one person; even self published books are the product of feedback from friends and family, experiences we’ve had with others, and just plain old people watching. So without further ado, let’s get to thanking people.
Obviously, my parents. They created the child that created this series of books, and for that I’ll be forever grateful. But more than that, I’m grateful for their incredible support no matter what crazy direction my life happens to take me in. My mother and father, my sisters, my brother, my whole family has been amazing throughout this whole process.
Several good friends of mine have been integral to the shape and scope of the story. They’ve all acted as sounding boards for all the crazy ideas I have, and let me know when they were worth reading and when they should be saved for better use elsewhere. Jessenia, Alejandra, Krista, and Stacia were the lucky few who got to see drafts of the book before anyone, and pushed me to keep writing. And I drew inspiration from every one of them as well, as well as Jessie, Marina, Steven, Mike… the list goes on and on, and so far I’ve only mentioned people I’ve known since high school. Each and every one of these people, and many more, have been amazingly supportive, and I can’t imagine how this series would have turned out without their influence.
Special thanks to the late Leslie Banks, whose work influenced me more than I ever imagined it would. Knowing her was a privilege, and if it hadn’t been for her incredible talent, wit, prolificacy, and generosity, I would never have started to take writing seriously. I miss you… we all do.
And finally, thank you, whoever you may be. Thank you for becoming part of this weird, wonderful world that’s transformed from a pet project to real, tangible books that real, tangible people can read. Thank you. And as a special reward for actually reading the acknowledgments, I’ll let you in on a little secret.
The end is never the end.
Scarred (the Spellbound Series Book 3) Page 25
