My name was Susan Forbes

Di Rosalba Vangelista

Crawley (Crow Valley) - England, 1847 "My name was Susan Forbes, and I was seventeen years old the day I committed suicide by hanging myself from a large branch of the oak tree in the family cemetery. Was I to blame? Not at all, because to love is not a crime." Susan is only seventeen. Susan has just one fault. She fell in love with Nicolas Wells, the young priest of her town, Crawley (Crow Valley). A clandestine love that will bring them to death and that Susan will tell in the sad pages of her diary. A paranormal tale, with gothic and romantic shades.

• Lingua: Italiano
• Editore: Youcanprint
• Data di uscita: 9 nov 2016
• ISBN: 9788892635982

Anteprima del libro

Indice

Cover

My name was Susan Forbes

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My name was Susan Forbes

Rosalba Vangelista

Cover by Tatiana Sabina Meloni

Translation by Annarita Tranfici

Editing and Proofreading by Laura Davey

ISBN: 9788892635982

Youcanprint Self-Publishing

All names, places and events in this book are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Nunc Pluvia Placet

RV

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He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.

Revelation 21:4

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Crawley (Crow Valley)

       England, 1847

My name was Susan Forbes, and I was seventeen years old the day I committed suicide by hanging myself from a large branch of the oak tree in the family cemetery. 

Was I to blame?

Not at all, because to love is not a crime. 

Or so I believed, at least, until my family killed the man that I loved and the child I was carrying, tying me like an animal to the headboard of my big, wrought-iron bed.

I still feel the pain and humiliation that I suffered in that moment, even now, in this place.

Here, in limbo, there is no sound, no light. 

It’s like floating in a void. 

I can see the fog that envelops me… a dense, cold fog that tastes of sin. 

Sin like the one that Nicolas and I committed, sin like the one that my family committed, sin that I myself committed, ending the life of a girl who believed that love was something sacred and wonderful. 

It was on that wretched bed, still covered in my own blood, having received the news of Nicolas’ murder, that I made my agonising and desperate decision. 

I recall and still hear the terrifying sound of my innocent, young neck snapping like dry wood, tight against the thick rope that I tied to the oak tree where I used to go and play as a child. 

The very same tree that used to make me feel safe had become my grave, my cruel and ruthless executioner. 

It’s cold here where I am, I don’t know how long I have been in this place, whether it’s been