He looked at her hands, cut up and bloody, yet hesitantly
holding up the pieces for him to see. He looked at her face and searched for
answers. How could someone like her be so scarred? How had they failed to
notice her dying a little more each day?
“I know it’s a mess.” She said softly.
As he peered at the pieces in her hands, his own heart
ached at the sight of a once wild, beating heart, that now lay faded and
lifeless. “It’s taken a lot of damage.” He muttered to himself.
The girl heard him, and she shrank back, closing up her
hands over the pieces once again. She winced as they spliced her wrists, yet
she didn’t loosen her grip.
He watched in horror and awe as the blood dripped down
her wrists. In spite of the pain it kept causing her, she kept trying to hold
on.
The girl found herself shrinking under his gaze. Don’t look too closely. She pleaded
silently. She has tired, so tired of this road she had traveled. She had
searched far and grown weary, and the longer she looked, the more hopeless it
seemed. Every time she offered up a piece, it came back in more pieces than
before. The stains were too great; the edges too jagged.
“I need to see it if you want it fixed.” He tried to tell
her.
Still the girl held tight. What would happen if she let
go? What if he only made it worse? Yet she scoffed at herself, because what could
be worse than what she already had? She tried to slowly uncurl her stiff
fingers. The blood had started to dry. One by one, she pried her own fingers
away and with every finger released the greater her dread grew. She paused—only
halfway done.
The man stretched out a hand to take the pieces from her,
but her fingers immediately clutched them again tight. The shards embedded
themselves into her palms and tears sprang into her eyes. “I can’t.” She
whispered. “I’m not ready.”
