In an Instant

by Suzanne Redfearn

I consider for a moment that perhaps this is hell, an invisible and silent existence where you have no ability to help those you love, forced to watch them struggle and suffer.

Stop avoiding every memory of who I was. I lived, and I do not want to only be recognized for my premature death. That was only the end. Before that was sixteen years of life—good, bad, funny, fun.

alcohol is that it makes you more of whatever you already are.

I wonder about this, about whether our humanity is determined more by circumstance than conscience, and if any of us if backed into a corner can change.

“Until eventually,” he says, “the present becomes the past, and you are somewhere else altogether, hopefully in a better place than you are today.”

Anyone who doesn’t believe in chemistry is wrong. And anyone who settles for less sells themselves short.