I soothe a crying woman. She is dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a smile that is presently twisted in heartache. She is now a cutter, maybe she is popping more pills, snorting something, maybe refilling the flask more than once before noon, maybe sipping a hundred sips between dawn and dusk.
She is fragile in her focus, her tears blur her common sense. Her parents have come for her, to scoop her up, to hold her close and stitch her frazzled mind into common sense, if they can.
I feel connected with her distress. I know this not by verbal accusation, but because the sound of her cries, turn my own heart inside out in time to jagged breaths, gulped between sobs.
I am not running from her.
I am stroking her hair.
It doesn’t end just rolls her over, enveloping her in what will become a coverlet cocoon, spinning her face into a mirror of nightmares, spun from deep wells of witness to her own games, those spineless charades of adventure.
The father, then the mother, stare into me and then through me and grieve over their loss of not one, but both of us.