The story of one woman's dark, spiritual journey.
Jackie Chandler, a broken woman, is strung out from years of denying the abuse of her violent childhood.
The misery and dysfunction, having taken its toll on yer, has left her desperate and with 1 of 3 choices:
End her life her and now, continue to carry the mountain of pain around and remain in the nightmare she has found herself in,
or face the darkness of her childhood and fight her way to freedom.
What would you choose?
Jackie Chandler, a broken woman, is strung out from years of denying the abuse of her violent childhood.
The misery and dysfunction, having taken its toll on yer, has left her desperate and with 1 of 3 choices:
End her life her and now, continue to carry the mountain of pain around and remain in the nightmare she has found herself in,
or face the darkness of her childhood and fight her way to freedom.
What would you choose?
Excerpts
Chapter 1
I was too young to fully comprehend what the man on the makeshift cross was feeling. I only knew that he hung there, in pain, staring at me. His eyes possess no anger: I knew what that looked like. Most people in my life had eyes full of anger, frustration, and evil, but this man showed no trace of that in his soul. He must have known his death was imminent, and yet he somehow seemed concerned for me because I could feel his compassion, even though I did not know how it was reaching me.
When you're a six-year-old girl, feelings hold an immense amount of weight; recognizing their presence was easy, but understanding them was not.
I was surrounded by people clothed in black hooded robes, standing in formation, watching. It was cold, and the night wind blew the tree branches back and forth, while threatening to blow out the candles strategically placed around us.
One man alone administered the horrific blows that caused his captive on the cross to convulse in pain. The whip he used was tied to his hand and had a long tail with splatters of blood. Each time the whip thrashed the man's body, the cracking of his soft flesh made me flinch. No one else seemed bothered by the sound.
The captive had been stripped of all clothing and hung there in humiliation. Blood from the gaping wounds flowed down his body, rushed past his knees, and dripped from his toes into little puddles below, staining the dirt with his life.
Drip, drip, drip.
A tear ran down his face, passing over a dark lesion, then disappeared into his matted beard. His brown hair hung freely to his shoulders and was covered in blood. Sweat rushed down his chest and mingled with the blood from his torso, and his teeth were stained red with the blood that oozed from the corners of his mouth. But still his only trace of emotion was the compassion flowing from his kind eyes to mine.
He continued to stare at me as if he were reaching out in a way that was tangible, with a tenderness that mocked the iniquity around us. Somehow, his love pushed through the thick fog of evil to reach the small, scared child before him.
Unable to bear seeing his pain, I looked down, but then grew afraid that if I did not watch this hideous act of violence and bloodshed, I would be next. As my eyes crept upward, I shuddered at the blood that flowed from his trembling body. My legs quivered beneath my robe as I cried out inside. Mommy please help him! Please Mommy, please!
I was too young to fully comprehend what the man on the makeshift cross was feeling. I only knew that he hung there, in pain, staring at me. His eyes possess no anger: I knew what that looked like. Most people in my life had eyes full of anger, frustration, and evil, but this man showed no trace of that in his soul. He must have known his death was imminent, and yet he somehow seemed concerned for me because I could feel his compassion, even though I did not know how it was reaching me.
When you're a six-year-old girl, feelings hold an immense amount of weight; recognizing their presence was easy, but understanding them was not.
I was surrounded by people clothed in black hooded robes, standing in formation, watching. It was cold, and the night wind blew the tree branches back and forth, while threatening to blow out the candles strategically placed around us.
One man alone administered the horrific blows that caused his captive on the cross to convulse in pain. The whip he used was tied to his hand and had a long tail with splatters of blood. Each time the whip thrashed the man's body, the cracking of his soft flesh made me flinch. No one else seemed bothered by the sound.
The captive had been stripped of all clothing and hung there in humiliation. Blood from the gaping wounds flowed down his body, rushed past his knees, and dripped from his toes into little puddles below, staining the dirt with his life.
Drip, drip, drip.
A tear ran down his face, passing over a dark lesion, then disappeared into his matted beard. His brown hair hung freely to his shoulders and was covered in blood. Sweat rushed down his chest and mingled with the blood from his torso, and his teeth were stained red with the blood that oozed from the corners of his mouth. But still his only trace of emotion was the compassion flowing from his kind eyes to mine.
He continued to stare at me as if he were reaching out in a way that was tangible, with a tenderness that mocked the iniquity around us. Somehow, his love pushed through the thick fog of evil to reach the small, scared child before him.
Unable to bear seeing his pain, I looked down, but then grew afraid that if I did not watch this hideous act of violence and bloodshed, I would be next. As my eyes crept upward, I shuddered at the blood that flowed from his trembling body. My legs quivered beneath my robe as I cried out inside. Mommy please help him! Please Mommy, please!
Chapter 5
He didn't move. His face twitched and his eyes glowed with a red tint. A chill shot down my spine. He stared at me with a malicious look, and I could hear a low growl in this throat. Was a demon controlling him?
He didn't move. His face twitched and his eyes glowed with a red tint. A chill shot down my spine. He stared at me with a malicious look, and I could hear a low growl in this throat. Was a demon controlling him?
Chapter 17
I put the book in my lap, where it lay heavily. I hesitated again, and then pushed the brass button and slowly opened the cover. From scanning a random page, it appeared to be some sort of journal-one in which I was the main character. I flipped back several pages and continued reading.
I put the book in my lap, where it lay heavily. I hesitated again, and then pushed the brass button and slowly opened the cover. From scanning a random page, it appeared to be some sort of journal-one in which I was the main character. I flipped back several pages and continued reading.