Her fingers gripped the pen as if a scalpel, knuckles sterile white, the red pen bleeding across the page as she cut through my words with practiced precision.
Her steady hands offered me the wounded organ mended. But in my quivering grip it felt like a starched bed-sheet menacingly awaiting its next sickly occupant.
“I will never write again.”
The statement was a heartbeat, solid and certain, but it felt as lifeless as the morgue.
“Wounds heal.” I whispered to the words covered in
scratches and ticks. “And scars remind us of the battles that we’ve walked away
from.”
The words were therapy.
I could feel the warmth returning to my fingers as I flexed them. I read through her systematic analysis, her diagnostic chart. She pressed into each wound, stretched every tight tendon, exposed all of my weakest parts.
I could feel the warmth returning to my fingers as I flexed them. I read through her systematic analysis, her diagnostic chart. She pressed into each wound, stretched every tight tendon, exposed all of my weakest parts.
“Will she survive?” I whisper to an empty room.
