He was like some wild, untamed creature that you could keep and feed for a time, but in the end you knew you'd have to let it go for its own sake as well as yours.

As a child, he had hardened his heart and learned to take their punches. He had learned to spit back and take down anyone who cast a jaundiced eye or who made a comment about either him, his mother, or his sister. He’d told himself that he didn’t need anyone’s love or caring. And so he had learned to live like a feral animal, always ready to strike out when someone tried to touch him.

Most men die many times in their lives. The man we become invariably slaughters the child we once were. His knowledge of the world murders the babe's innocence. from Time Untime by Sherrilyn Kenyon

In my stories, I controlled what happened in a way I couldn't in real life. My characters lived through the horror and degradation of the cruelty of others and they not only survived, they thrived. They gave me hope and laughter, and they kept me going in spite of everything else. They were my heroes.

Ren frowned as he surveyed the madness they were knee-deep in. “Why are you under such heavy fire?” Nick gave him a droll stare. “Oh, I don’t know. But we’re really enjoying it. Fear has such a wonderfully romantic scent to it that they ought to turn it into cologne and deodorant. Eau de Ew. Let’s all just take a minute, and bask in it.

While books provided me with some escape from the mental and physical horrors of my early life, they were unreliable. Many times the protagonists suffered terribly and then died at the end.

Let’s at least hope it’s not a gallu. Why? They’re not all bad, in a smelly, need-to-be-killed kind of way.