Please welcome Victoria Klahr to My Book Fairy today! She's touring with her book That's A Promise. Learn more below!
About the Book
Pain isn’t new to me.
I’ve been to hell only to find it never really leaves when you get back. It haunts me through nightmares, unrequited love, lies, broken hearts, and now death.
A monster almost took my life.
My best friend carries half my soul a world away.
My boyfriend broke my heart but refuses to let me go.
And my father is dead.
I don’t believe in fate and I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters, but for some reason, I still hope.
Live, even with a tainted spirit.
Long for my other half to come back to me.
Risk another broken heart, just to feel loved again.
And refuse to let another horror break me.
In the face of my most recent tragedy, I have to decide whether forgiveness is something I can give. But even if that’s an option, can I be forgiven?
Enjoy this excerpt from That's a Promise:
I’M IN A SEA of black. The beautiful May day gives no impression that there is any sadness or grief in the air. It’s one of those days that you want to spend outside, smelling the new blooming flowers, getting some sun, and walking in the grass barefoot, but none of those things hold any interest for me.
Everything is a blur around me, a haze that mirrors my own depression. I know people are talking to me, but I don’t hear them. They express sadness in their words, but most of them never sympathized with us before today. They talk as if they know us, but where were they before? They live their lives talking shit behind people’s backs, but don’t see the hypocrisy in their fake condolences.
I’ve learned to ignore the whispers and stares, a lesson received repeatedly as I grew up in what some would call an “unconventional” household. Apparently punching everyone who bullies you isn’t the socially acceptable way to handle things, so I try to just ignore them. I don’t want or need to let any of their negativity in, so I remain quiet. There’s been enough sadness in our lives, and there’s no need for nasty words from nosey neighbors to pile onto that pain.
A person in a black suit finishes shoveling dirt into the cold, deep grave. I focus on the earth closing around the person I loved so immensely and to whom I felt so close. The ground consumes the casket and takes my loved one away into a lonely pit; permanently putting an end to the best person I will ever know.
I look at my dad sitting next to me. He is distraught, but well medicated for the occasion, only showing emotion when he remembers he just lost the love of his life. He seems to have aged ten years in the past week. He was once the strongest and most commanding person I knew, but today, he looks like a child.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything except for the essentials. He exists, but he’s not living. He looks up at me and I feel like maybe he wants to reach out and say something to comfort me, but I know his internal pain limits him from showing affection. I put my hand on his shoulder to show I’m here, hoping he understands what I mean.
People are finally leaving. Leaving us behind to grieve together in peace. That’s a lie. There is no peace for us, and there won’t be for a long time. With the preparations for the funeral complete, I have all the time in the world to sit and think about the gravity of what I just lost. That’s not peace. That’s torture.
“Dad,” I say, “I think that maybe we should head back to the house.” He sits there, giving no indication that he heard me suggest our departure.
“Dad,” I try again, after a minute. “Let’s say goodbye, and go home.” I can’t stand to be here any
longer.
He stands slowly and walks over to the heap of dirt covering a life that was once vibrant and lively. He collapses onto the mound, and at first I’m startled by the sudden fall. Once I hear the heart wrenching sobs that escape his mouth, I understand he is saying his goodbye. I hear him murmuring about his undying love, and decide to give him some privacy.
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Everything is a blur around me, a haze that mirrors my own depression. I know people are talking to me, but I don’t hear them. They express sadness in their words, but most of them never sympathized with us before today. They talk as if they know us, but where were they before? They live their lives talking shit behind people’s backs, but don’t see the hypocrisy in their fake condolences.
I’ve learned to ignore the whispers and stares, a lesson received repeatedly as I grew up in what some would call an “unconventional” household. Apparently punching everyone who bullies you isn’t the socially acceptable way to handle things, so I try to just ignore them. I don’t want or need to let any of their negativity in, so I remain quiet. There’s been enough sadness in our lives, and there’s no need for nasty words from nosey neighbors to pile onto that pain.
A person in a black suit finishes shoveling dirt into the cold, deep grave. I focus on the earth closing around the person I loved so immensely and to whom I felt so close. The ground consumes the casket and takes my loved one away into a lonely pit; permanently putting an end to the best person I will ever know.
I look at my dad sitting next to me. He is distraught, but well medicated for the occasion, only showing emotion when he remembers he just lost the love of his life. He seems to have aged ten years in the past week. He was once the strongest and most commanding person I knew, but today, he looks like a child.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything except for the essentials. He exists, but he’s not living. He looks up at me and I feel like maybe he wants to reach out and say something to comfort me, but I know his internal pain limits him from showing affection. I put my hand on his shoulder to show I’m here, hoping he understands what I mean.
People are finally leaving. Leaving us behind to grieve together in peace. That’s a lie. There is no peace for us, and there won’t be for a long time. With the preparations for the funeral complete, I have all the time in the world to sit and think about the gravity of what I just lost. That’s not peace. That’s torture.
“Dad,” I say, “I think that maybe we should head back to the house.” He sits there, giving no indication that he heard me suggest our departure.
“Dad,” I try again, after a minute. “Let’s say goodbye, and go home.” I can’t stand to be here any
longer.
He stands slowly and walks over to the heap of dirt covering a life that was once vibrant and lively. He collapses onto the mound, and at first I’m startled by the sudden fall. Once I hear the heart wrenching sobs that escape his mouth, I understand he is saying his goodbye. I hear him murmuring about his undying love, and decide to give him some privacy.
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Giveaway
About the Author
Victoria Klahr (pronounced “Claire”) lives in Elizabeth City, North Carolina with her husband and daughter, Stephen and Alexis. She loves her chug (Pug/Chihuahua), Bandit, and daughter to pieces. She is a huge and proud book nerd who looks at her bookshelf in admiration daily. When she’s not daydreaming about book boyfriends and fantasizing about being a badass heroine like Rose Hathaway, she’s busy doing schoolwork for her Bachelor’s degree in Psychology and writing the stories that speak to her in her head. She loves peanut butter with Oreos, good friends, amazing gossip, driving in the middle of merge lanes, comedies, crude humor, pretending like she can dance, pretending like she can kick major ass, and a really, really good laugh.
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