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lhclerihue 's review for:
Unwritten
by Charles Martin
‘That love, the real kind, the kind only wished for in whispers and the kind our hearts are hardwired to want, is opening up your bag of you and risking the most painful statement ever uttered between the stretched-edges of the universe’ ”—she held out her hand to me—“ ‘This was once me.’
I was once one piece but then something happened and I broke, or shattered, and now I am many. Then, you and I meet and I realize that you’re bleeding ’cause you’ve been broken, too, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put you back together again. And then I realize you’re fading and in need of triage. You won’t last the night. So, I give you the only thing I have—I hand you my bag and tell you that you can have any or all of those pieces to stuff in the wound. And what’s more, they don’t cost you anything. They’re free. I paid for them in the breaking. And because you’re desperate, and you’ve tried most everything else, you empty my bag across the floor, spilling them like splinters, and you rifle through each one, and somewhere in that furious discovery you find the one piece you’ve been missing. One piece out of a million. Or ten trillion. And when you insert that piece into the puzzle that had become you, it stops the hemorrhage, and for the first time in maybe your whole life, the wound starts to heal. And, when it does, you hand me your bag because I’m still bleeding.
I was once one piece but then something happened and I broke, or shattered, and now I am many. Then, you and I meet and I realize that you’re bleeding ’cause you’ve been broken, too, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put you back together again. And then I realize you’re fading and in need of triage. You won’t last the night. So, I give you the only thing I have—I hand you my bag and tell you that you can have any or all of those pieces to stuff in the wound. And what’s more, they don’t cost you anything. They’re free. I paid for them in the breaking. And because you’re desperate, and you’ve tried most everything else, you empty my bag across the floor, spilling them like splinters, and you rifle through each one, and somewhere in that furious discovery you find the one piece you’ve been missing. One piece out of a million. Or ten trillion. And when you insert that piece into the puzzle that had become you, it stops the hemorrhage, and for the first time in maybe your whole life, the wound starts to heal. And, when it does, you hand me your bag because I’m still bleeding.