The Art of Breaking Down

There wasn't much left of her. It was like another person had stepped in and taken over her body – a much weaker and far more vulnerable person. What remained was agony, twisting inside of her and making her flinch at the smallest of things, and then there was the rage.

Those around her made the rage flare up. They said the obvious. They tried to see if she was okay. They were people and they were human and they were messed up, but they weren't as screwed up as she. No, none of them had been through what she had. None of them could understand. So why bother explaining? Why try?

Why even bother with any of it?

The answers evaded her much like her friends seemed to be doing. They sensed that if would be safer for them to be far away from her, where she couldn't lash out. They were right. They were a part of her pain; she wanted them nowhere near.

Not even he is welcome near. With his puppy dog eyes and hurt expressions, he makes her feel even worse. What gives him the right to make her feel guilty for feeling the way she is? Why should she let him get away with it? Why should he be allowed to comment on her state of being and her state of mind and her state of whatever the hell she's going through?


There isn't a thing there. Nothing. Just as there is no reason why all of this, all this shit, should keep landing on her front porch, spirals of flame curling up into the night, making her nauseous and burning her eyes.

She was shot.

She needed to move past it. And screw waiting for time to heal and all that bull. Time takes time. Time is never-ending.

Time was what she does not have.

There wasn't much left of her. There wasn't much holding her in place; there was only a simple, thin thread that was fraying every moment she held onto it. Soon, she would fall and crash and the slow build will burn until there was no oxygen left.

The pain would cease, one day. But first, she would get a feel for the art of breaking. down.