Warrior Blue

by Kelsey Kingsley

Moments. Jake's life was a patchworked tapestry of moments. Good moments, bad moments.

The ghosts here were a lot friendlier than the memories at home.

“Blake Carson,”

Thoughts of butterflies and assumptions. Siblings and stories.

There's gotta be some little witch out there just dying to find her dark prince."

Jake would be with me forever, and as long as he was there, my life would be his. There wasn’t room for anything, or anyone, else. And there never would be.

was where I granted my soul the permission to come alive when the sun set and the moon rose and my dreams breathed.

The weak and desperate fell on God, while the realists see the world for exactly what it is. Is it depressing? Sure, but so is the brutal and tragic reality that some kids are born perfect, full of potential and promise, only to have their problematic brother steal it all away.

"Why won't he give himself a chance?"

"Because what gives me the right to live? Tell me that, you know-it-all bitch! What gives me the fucking right to go about my miserable fucking life, finding love, finding happiness, finding success in whatever-the-fuck, when he had it all ripped out from under him?”

The game changer. The plan ruiner. That fucking butterfly tattoo.

broke my brother, robbing him of any chance he’d have at being his own artist. I drained the love from my mother’s heart and stole the happiness from my dad. I was a leech, a parasite, and I was paying for it with my life.

"It’s life and death,” she explained frankly, never allowing her smile to wilt. “Or, as you put it, a butterfly, but in reverse.”

don’t have a vibe. I'm just me. Vibeless Blake.

You sent out a Bat Signal for her, and she answered the call."

"Yes! I was! And how the fuck is that fair? Why should I get to go out and live my life, when I'm the fucking reason he can't live his? It's fucking bullshit!”

"I like her color. She's yellow. Pretty yellow. Like flowers. She's like a flower, Blake."

"Not only is he unburdened by the harsh reality of the world around him, but he has the gift of honest intuition and a brother who obviously adores him. That is the very definition of lucky, Blake, and

she was light, she was good, and that I was the darkness looming in the near distance, just dying to snuff her out.

frequent circumstantial coincidences

"Your words are your heart, and it's broken, but it's not ugly. You're not ugly."

Timing … Serendipity. Fate. Signs.

She laid her arm across my waist, pressing her cheek to my chest, before breathing a sigh against my heart. And my heart sighed back.

For two seconds too long, there was nothing but air passing between us. Whispers of the mind, secrets of the heart,

This thing with Audrey had begun coincidental, was damn near accidental, but it’d quickly become something close to habitual.

“Part of taking care of someone, is making sure you take care of yourself, and that includes your own happiness. And I know this, because when I’m happy, Freddy is happy,” she explained quietly. “So, if you were happy, Jake would be happy, too.”

every life, every day, should be celebrated. It’s all precious and sacred.”

“You don’t have to condone the actions of your children to maintain that unconditional love.”

What’s written here, Is meant to keep. When you’ve crawled, Into your shadows deep, When the time you have, Seems like too much, When you shudder at, A lover’s touch. Don’t be scared, To let pain drown, Just always remember, To write it down. And one day, When that pain is done, Open this book, To see how far you’ve come.

“Because there are certain things in our lives—certain people—that are just supposed to be there. We don’t choose them, or what they’ll mean to us; they’re just a part of who we are.”

“And what is it you think I am to you?” I asked instead, surprised to find my voice so hushed, I could barely hear it myself. And without hesitation, she answered, “You’re the man I’m meant to love.”

Audrey had glimpsed the darkness in my chest and lit a match. She’d started a fire and given me the reason to believe I could, in fact, have a soul. Something bound only to flesh in this life, something with the capability to move from this world into another.

God doesn’t always package the best ones in what we’d expect. That’s what makes them harder to find. And more worth the wait.”

“You resent me,” I quietly stated. “You … you have spent over two decades making sure I’d hate myself as much as you hate me—”

We’re all taught that our parents are here to protect us, pat us on the back, and tell us how proud they are to call us theirs. To ensure that we grow into happy, confident adults. But my parents never did, and I am the miserable, broken result of that.

“You fight hard and love even harder, and that’s what I want. I want you.”

Signs. Souls. Fate. Gifts. God.

That accident twenty-four years ago had shattered us all and sent our pieces swirling in a chaotic wind. But maybe with time, those fragmented bits could come to settle in the same place. Maybe we could rebuild. Maybe we could become something better, something good.

A dying girl who wanted a tattoo of a butterfly.

It’s because you let it happen. You got tired of standing still, of living in the past with all your guilt and anger, and you decided to start moving.