Page 183 of Paint the Town, Dove
I’d always separated me from Violet, a mere fragment of my imagination. A different girl, a different story.
It raised a dominant version, a tougher one, eradicating the warmth inside me that still fizzled beneath my skin.
Ryden met me as Violet.
Ryden loved me as Violet.
I chose tobecome Scarlett red, dripping with fury.
Red is more than just fire, Scarlett, Sue had said.Red is roses and rubies, vitality and passion. There is blood running through your veins, not acid. Blood means life. You do not need to be an aggressor, you can simplybe.
Simply be.
But who was I without the pain? The suffering? The baggage? The loss?
Who was I with Ryden?
He loves with his whole chest,I’d explained,I don’t know if I’m capable.
She had smiled.You’re confident aren’t you, Scarlett?
Well, I’d say so.
Confidence is trying to love with your whole heart, even if you’re notconfidentthere is much left to love with.
And so I tried.
I tried. And tried. And tried.
Until trying didn’t feel like effort, because the right person forces you to heal.
Loving him felt like flying, like breathing, as if it had already existed beneath the burning hole in my lungs.
Ryden compared that to art.
The unquenchable thirst of creation.
Music, noise, melodies.
I understood now, the feeling of being a rock star.
Not a performance on stage, or a dazzling smile on the jumbotron.
It was heart.
The essence of it – exposing yourself raw to the world, and allowing the world to look back at you without resentment or shame.
I could do that with time. I could expose myself to the world.
Myworld.
My Eagle.
My Ryden.
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Ryden
