Here she was, where she’d been so many times before, music playing quietly in the background thoughts screaming through her head. Questions without answers spewing out over a wound that never healed. Would it ever just be a nice little scar? Is that even a possibility? It had been three years and the pain was still just as real as before. The onset was always the same as soon as there was a glimpse of hope that she may be able to move on – it reopened. Not just reopened but grew, if that was even possible. Just how far did this go? Was there anything she could do about? She believed she had taken the proper steps, cleansed the wound thoroughly, binding those which needed bounding and allowing those which needed air to breathe, fought the impending infections, and allowed plenty of time for it to heal. But no, once again it had reopened.
But had she reopened it herself on purpose, because she wanted a wound? Not any wound, but this wound. A wound she had some experience with. For if she were wounded, there would be no need for reckless behavior. No need to take a risk and go down a possibly treacherous path. Yes, this wound while painful could save far worse and prevent future scarring.
She didn’t particularly want to live a wounded life, but she was terrified of being healed.
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