"Faith can't be stolen. You have to give it up, consciously. You let logic take it from you. You decided to believe in something tangible- something you can see, feel, break-apart the pieces and still be able to recognize the whole." That was Harper. He was drunk too. Hell, we all were. We always were.
"What was I supposed to do? How could I hold up against an onslaught against the Holy Ghost? Big bangs and fossils and the evolution of bird bones. Good ol' Mr. Darwin and his trek through the Galapagos."
"Maybe you never believed." I hated the sound of my own voice, the way my vowels collided on my tongue and left my lips feeling numb in the wake of their wreckage.
The hiss and snarl of marijuana scraped the flesh on the inside of my nostrils. My neck leaned for it while my hands hid beneath the folds of my skirt. I never knew what I wanted so I gulped down a concoction of aspartame laced coca-cola and rum. I imagined the cancer sliding across the slick folds of my throat, finding purchase, nesting and plotting my demise. Alcohol was my warrior, my anesthesia, my last ditch effort.
Edited by Antilla, 06 February 2010 - 03:18 PM.