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I inhale a deep breath, nod. “Didn’t even open it.”
“All right.” He grasps my hand, laces our fingers together. His thumb traces my wrist, free of the band. “Good. You want to read the husband’s interview so far?”
Just like that, we move forward.
A letter came in the mail today. It had traveled around the country, bouncing from mailboxes, until it finally found its destination. It was addressed from a Florida correctional penitentiary. From Torrance. A part of me—that part that still ceases to breathe when the memory of that night stirs—wanted to tear the letter open. To read the words and torture myself with trepidation.
We are human. We are flawed. We gravitate to the worst possible outcome because we are designed to expect this, to anticipate the bottom falling out.
Knowledge dispels fear.
Since uncovering the mystery of my fear, I have slain my demons. Whenever doubt creeps into my thoughts, all I have to do is remind myself of this.
So instead, I placed the letter on the kitchen counter and made Rhys aware. He’s a part of my story. We face these challenges together.
Victims do not have to suffer alone.
Victims do not have to be victims.
I am a survivor.
I escaped death not once but twice. The first time the Grim Reaper touched my life, I left myself buried in a grave of lotuses. I clung to that death, I ran, afraid of a faceless killer.
Drew did kill me that night—not for just those sixty-seven seconds—he ended my life…because I allowed him to, because I was too ashamed to live. When I finally returned home to my parents, I ultimately learned that, in order to conquer my fear, I had to accept all of my choices, all of my hurt.
We cannot carve our lives into sections. The good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly moments; one cannot exist without the other. This is the design.
I am not like the leaves of the lotus; I am its petals. Soft and pliable, but also sharp and deadly, like the blade that carved my body. I do not suffer my scars. They’re a testament of my strength and will to survive.
I am not unsoiled—but I am not the mud.
I’m free of the mud that held me bound at the bottom for so long.
People much wiser than I have studied and praised the lotus, have written proverbs and songs dedicated to its remarkability. I can only testify as to how it has affected my life.
Buddha may disagree, but for me, the lotus effect represents more than a mere second chance. It’s a chance to relive a moment in time; a chance to correct the imbalance.
After I was released from the hospital, Rhys asked me—only once—about what I confessed on the boat.
Was it a premonition? At my moment of death, was I given a glimpse of the future? Did time and space bend and touch at two profound moments of my life?
I don’t know the answer. I have no explanation. All I know is that, to only rely on logical explanations can be a desolate existence. If the most intelligent minds in the world knew with absolute surety that there was no other reason beyond what we can see and touch, they would not have devoted their life to the study of time; the quest to explore beyond our tangible reach.
All I know for certain is that we are all searching.
I was searching.
And this time around, I found hope was not a curse.
Rhys and I… We are the beauty that grew out of the mud.
