Breath rasping with the agony of what she was about to do, the woman pressed the object of her hope to the rough bloodstained stone. Drawing a cocked pistol, she held the trembling barrel to her target. This dream had become a dagger in her heart that she could no longer live with. At least if it were dead, she would no longer have to bear the pain of keeping a living sacrifice on the altar, would she?
But as eyes met hers, she wavered. For how could she kill in cold blood a dream that bore a human face?
So often we feel alone, when we truly aren't. Ask a crowded room full of people if they have ever felt alone, and every hand would go up. That would make for a lot of lonely people. What if we were simply honest about our struggles? What if we were simple open in our moments of humanness? Wouldn't that make a few less lonely people on the earth? What if the truth was that the one who dares to be real is actually the bravest?
