I still have absolutely nothing to blog about, so I thought I would change it up and throw in an excerpt from my novel, Flight, that never made it into the final edit. Please see below my Prologue, that, for a million reasons, ended up not working for the finished product, but was still a personal favorite of mine nonetheless.
It was an odd thing, dying.
I had to admit; I’d never given much thought to it. But then again, what 18-year-old girl ever would. Especially someone like me; someone who had the whole world on a silver platter constantly at her fingertips. I was born into a dynasty of wealth and opulence. Surely that would guarantee long life and happiness.
It certainly shouldn’t have led to my early death.
And yet, here I was. I could feel the life draining from me as the constriction on my throat grew tighter and tighter. The hands continued to squeeze the life out of me. It was amazing that hands that were once so loving and so dear, could equally be as evil and sinister. Never in my life would I have imagined these hands being the cause of my death, and certainly not in this way. The act of being killed was bearable. I avoided the eyes that went with those hands. Having to stare into those eyes; that was the painful part. They were empty and soulless. I couldn’t stare into them because it was a reminder of the person I had lost.
The person responsible for taking my life was the one person I would have given my life for.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him hurrying towards me, racing to try and save me. I saw the pain and panic in his eyes as he rushed in vain to try and get to me in time. I knew in my heart that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. My heart had already been broken a million times that night and my soul had already been killed. Having my physical body actually die was just a technicality. The deed was already done.
I savored the last moment I could of him. I could see the passionate effort in his face to try and save my life. Maybe to hold me one last time, as I would have given anything to do right now. But I knew his efforts would be futile.
He was so lovely, so beautiful. It was amazing how, even in his horror stricken face, I still managed to find solace and peace. That was the look I wanted to remember. I shut my eyes and tried my best to erase the pain in my love’s face, and instead replace it with the tranquil expression that I had fallen so deeply in love with. That would be my last memory of him; I was determined in that.
Some people say that at the moment of your death, your life races before your eyes. All of your past memories and all of your past loves come flitting into your brain, flooding it with the saga that was your life.
Well, those people are wrong.
At the moment of your death, you’re only thinking of one thing. It’s the only thing and the most important thing of all. I know because I’m dying right now and only one thought is being filtered into my brain, repeating itself like a mantra that won’t stop no matter how hard I may try: