I like to pretend I’m alone. Completely alone. Maybe post-apocalypse or plague. Whatever. No one left to act normal for, no need to hide who I really am. It would be freeing.

We all make rules for ourselves. It’s these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules, we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown. Who is Deb now? Who am I? Is this a new beginning? Or the beginning of the end?

2x1/4x8/7x6

I’ve never had much use for the concept of Hell, but if Hell exists, I’m in it. The same images running through my head over and over. I was there. I saw my mother’s death. A buried memory forgotten all these years. It climbed inside me that day, and it’s been with me every since. My Dark Passenger.

I have never forgotten the day that we were…
Born.