Forgiveness, Can you imagine ? It will happen to you. It is the last breath that the old soul needs to blow . . . if they don't know how to do it yet. I had the privilege to be a part of three funerals. I can tell you this, if it is an open cremation, you will be surrounded by people who are in some way familiar with the ashes of the person who you are choosing to forgive -- relatives, friends, family members. They are going to walk around and talk to you for weeks and months after you choose to forgive. Yes, sometimes people will hate you for it, but that's life. It is true forgiveness, it is real and it must be accepted. So what is my advice? "It is not a question of forgiving. It is about getting over it. It is the beginning of real recovery. Your brain needs to get over it and get back into a real place."
Rigor mortis had already set in but she managed to pry the piece of paper from the victims cold, lifeless hand. She looked into his eyes, saw how they were cloudy and grey, like a sky on a stormy night. She felt like he was watching her, judging her. “Pardon, Monsieur” she whispered, genuinely remorseful, as she heaved the knife out of his bloated chest. She began to walk down the streets of France with iron steps, her beaten leather boots slapping the cobbled stones, echoing through the alleys of Avenue Montaigne. She glanced back behind her at the body she had left to rot. She felt for the paper she had stuffed in her pocket, pulling it out in one swift movement. She read what was written on the note ‘Mademoiselle, they’re coming for you...’ was wrote in steady cursive. A gasp escaped her lips as she dropped the note. They had found her. There was nowhere else to go as she heard the beat of horses sound off behind her. This was the end. She was Looking into a dead mans eyes.
(P.s if anyone reads this and dose not speak French ‘pardon, monsieur’ just means ‘I’m sorry, sir’)
The fire simmered down to a low snuffed out by the heavy night breeze, smoke twirling in soft tendrils in the night sky. He watched as the smoke drifted up and danced in the sky, following it with his eyes until it disappeared. Sometimes he wished he could be smoke, one moment he’d be there, and the next... gone. Forgotten. Gone with the breeze. To be picked up by the wind and follow the smoke to wherever it would lead him, live there and be happy with his life. But he can’t do that... He let his eyes fall to the dying embers of the fire, the orange and yellow orbs glinting with the last signs of life, flickering and blinking. He sat up and ran his fingers through the wiry grass, tugging as it knotted around his fingers. Dragging his knees up close to his chin he picked at the flaking paint of his beaten shoes. He stood up, stomping on what was left of the fire, leaving him in total darkness and no longer able to watch the smoke. Maybe it’s better that way.
