"She wanted to place blame, but she was the product of her own actions. She had made the decisions that led her away from everything she could have ever wanted. Her life was that of a fleeting gypsy, and unorganized suitcase, a splatter of her victims blood upon dirty clothing. Silently, she watched him sleep. He remained peaceful; his mind no longer fostering the “What’s next” he had continually asked her since leaving the motel. A part of her, she hated to admit, wished he didn't love her; wished he hadn't searched for her. Their hearts, however, remained as one despite the miles that had seemingly threatened their love."
An excerpt from "Fleeting Gypsy", from Prelude to a Dream
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