Chapter One (Of My Someday Book) (Unedited)
Dirty Blue Carpet
I wrote this in June of 2022, nearly 9 months after the death of Valor.
I'm sharing it now as a small glimpse into what it might feel like one day to release novel-style writing into the world. I still have a lot of muscle to build in that area—but this piece is raw, unedited, and deeply honest. It’s a snapshot of real-life grief, sorrow, and the struggle to yield to the new life God was gently offering, even as I thrashed undeservingly in His arms.
This is the first draft I ever sat down to write—the one the Lord quietly whispered:
"Someday, this will be in your book."
Chapter One
Dirty Blue Carpet
I sobbed face down on my bathroom’s dirty blue carpet for a long time tonight. I traced my finger along the fibers, letting my tears fall freely and dampen them as thoughts of suicide circled around closer than they normally do. Feelings of hopelessness gripped at me, snatching at my weepy frame.
I imagined dark shadowy figures dancing in a circle around me, taunting, gnashing their teeth, spewing lies and hate and desperately trying to break through the barrier that is their world- into mine.
“Just a bite” they beg God, saliva dripping off their demonic lips.
I don’t think I could ever actually do it, I just imagine what it would be like. The peace I would feel immediately upon the release of the grip this body has on my soul. This earth-shell that’s chained to this world and its sorrows. I imagine myself lifeless in the tub. Downing all my sleeping pills and then using a small blade to slit two vertical windows into the wrists of this 5ft 4in flesh I’ve called home for 29 years.
Immediately I’m distracted from my dark imagery as I imagine my family finding me, or worse- one of my children, and what that would do to them after they’ve already been through so much.
Then I remember the small life being woven inside my miserable womb and the fact that I still have 30 weeks until I’m responsible for yet another life. (Add one more to the list I’m not worthy of.)
I feel anger rush over me at the absence of an easy way out.
Beckham, my 6 year old (and now- my only living) son walks in minutes later awaking me from my suicidal reverie. He sees that I’m crying and sits quietly beside me on the dirty blue carpet next to the tub.
I wonder if I’ll live to see the day this carpet finally gets replaced,
I think to myself.
He leans on the cream colored wainscoting asking an innocent question, the only one he really ever knows to ask when he finds me like this.
“You miss Valor?”