Doom angel

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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My dad told me that when my mom was still alive, she used to tell me both untold stories or unusual ones and renowned tales about myths of death and cycles of life even when I was still in her womb.

She greatly influenced my beliefs which piqued the interest of my young curious mind to be fond of reading mysterious hidden tales and mythology.

It was bed time, the cold looming moon shines brightly up at the starry night sky when I decided to spend my long night reading rather than sleeping.

I got up from my bed, heading to our manor's library holding a white long scented candle placed on the gold glass flickering brightly against the dark and a book on the other side which I had finished just 2 days ago.

As I reached my destination, I still can't help but to be amazed and fascinated by the beauty of the interiors of our very own house which was owned and expanded by our ancestors and has been passed down from generation to generation.

I scrunched my nose with the familiar scent of the painted paved archaic walls where the big old portraits were hanged and displayed grandly and the greek doric columns which exhibits minimalistic beauty in simplicity.

Bibliosmia...

The wooden smell coming from the old books mixed with the faint aroma of coffee that surrounds this marvelous room entices me every time and bewitches me to be indulged and unravel the implicit bareness of each wonderfully crafted books up until it's tiniest details.

I returned the book I brought to it's rightful own place and picked a new one to read at the same shelf.

I traced my fingers to the dusty old letters engraved on the hardbound cover.

Mythology...

In general, others referred it as a study and interpretation of often sacred tales or fables of a culture known as myths...

Some basically defines it as the collection of such classical old tales and mythical cultural stories which deal with various aspects of the human condition...

May it be good or evil.

I paused reading as I heard an indistinct rustling sounds in the surroundings of this large dark room.

I roamed my big doe eyes across the dark surroundings yet I can not find anything odd or strange except for the disarrayed arrangement of books on the gigantic shelves.

I just shrugged and continued reading the page where I last off.

It further elaborated that some of such tales give a story behind the meaning of suffering, others may be a conceptual or theoretical various explanations of human origins such as how life was created and how earth was formed.

It expresses the beliefs and values about these subjects held by a certain culture from all around the world.

All in all, there are millions of myths existing from different races and from different countries that tell the stories of ancestors and the origin of humans and the world, the gods, and the supernatural beings.

I read to my heart's content until the drowsiness engulfed me.

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