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I did the best I could. But, in the end, it was not good enough. In essence, all I was and possessed had been sacrificed to produce this "work of a lifetime".
Now, the Editor, with slashing strokes of red ink had crossed it all out. I stood before His enormous desk, in shock and disbelief. A hollow emptiness like nothing I had ever felt came over me. I grabbed onto the edge of the desk, so as not to fall. I had poured myself into each page. Even the spaces were precious to me. Was there nothing worthy? Not one word?
The blood rushed from my head and I felt faint at the realization that I would never be able to write anything good enough for this Editor. He expected--no, demanded-- perfection. The Editor was looking at me. Somehow, when my eyes met His, I was no longer devastated. That look--what was it? Kindness? Understanding? Love?
A movement caught my eye. His pen moved almost imperceptibly across the page. He was writing a new story over mine. Drawn to read it, all fear gone, I approached His side. He was seated in a leather chair behind the desk--its size surpassed only by its beauty, with decorative engraving on all sides and edges. As I came near, He reached out His arm and drew me in. I felt childlike as He placed His arm over my shoulder. I became aware for the first time just how big He was.
I looked at the page, and saw that what I had been unable to do, He did perfectly. His story flowed out over the pages with passion and beauty. Though His demeanor was gentle, the words He penned were full of power. There was no story quite like it. It broke my heart to read it. How long I stood there, I don't know, but suddenly I was reading the last line: "It is finished."
I looked up into His eyes, just in time to see a tear dropping onto the page, yet there was inexplicable joy which shone across His face. Turning towards me, the look in His eyes pierced me to my very soul. "I wrote this for you," was all He said, and only then did I notice He held no pen. The red ink was His own blood.
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