There are so many people in this world who hurt. I'm not talking about the fall-down-and-scrape-your-knee kind of hurt. I mean the emotional kind. The kind that keeps you awake at night and eats away at you when you're left in silence to think about nothing. It's the kind that takes lives, lives that sometimes never had the chance to be lived. Some people learn to carry on in spite of it, but even then, it's always there when they close their eyes. Alone in the dark, the monsters hide.
But no one is ever alone.
"I'm alright, I guess," the young woman said as she sat down on the couch, playing with her long brown hair.
The older woman took a seat in her chair across from her patient, settling herself comfortably and picking up a smooth stone off the table, gesturing for Amber to do the same. "Are your nightmares still giving you trouble?"
The girl nodded as she settled back into the cushions of the couch and closed her eyes, running her thumb over the flawless surface of the river rock in her hand. "It's the same thing as always: I'm at a party and someone comes over and grabs me by the arm and they drag me off through the crowd and nobody does anything about it. I can scream, I can kick, but it's like I'm not even there. The person -- I guess it's a guy, I don't know. It seems like it'd be a guy -- drags me off into another room and throws me on the floor. The door closes behind him and it all goes black." She opened her eyes and looked at the raven-haired woman in the chair with an expression of hopelessness. "That's it. I can never get past that point. At least, I couldn't, but somehow, I felt like I almost might."
"Why is that?"
She shook her head and leaned back against the armrest again. "I don't know. I thought I almost saw his face this time. Maybe I'm misremembering it though."
"What do you think the figure is? Or who?"
Amber closed her eyes and thought for a moment, continuing to trace the contours of the river rock. "I guess it could be me, in a way, I mean, that's what I've read about dreams like this. It's usually the subconscious or something." She paused again, but the older woman said nothing, letting the girl think. "I guess it could also be... him."
Pain shot through the older woman's head, like a lance passing straight through one temple and out the other. She gritted her teeth and said nothing as images of hands, shadows, and nondescript settings flashed across her vision. She could hear screaming, crying, and a calm tenor voice telling her there was nothing to worry about and that everything would be okay. She passed her thumb back and forth over the surface of the rock in her hand.
"Are you alright?"
The girl on the couch made a small, helpless noise as she fought to hold back tears. With her eyes squeezed shut, she shook her head furiously.
"Take deep breaths and let the images and feelings come. It's okay. You're safe here."
The older woman closed her eyes and let the trauma wash over her as well. Anger, fear, and nausea consumed her as her surroundings transformed into the harsh false reality that Amber was reliving in her mind. Keeping her breathing steady, the older woman watched and absorbed what she could. Eventually, the flashback ended, and when she opened her eyes they were back in the room with Amber sobbing softly on the couch.
You've seen so much for someone so young, the older woman thought as a single tear rolled down her cheek. It'll be all right in the end. You're strong. So very strong. You just don't see it yet.
The blonde-haired woman was inconsolable with grief. Her husband sat beside her on the couch with his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm gently. Outwardly, he looked composed, but his eyes betrayed him. They held hands around a small gray stone, worn smooth by water and time.
"We've tried five times," the man said, his voice tight. "We really thought this would be the one. Seven months, and then the heartbeat just... stopped."
His wife's pained sobs redoubled at the mention of their unborn baby's heartbeat. Her abdomen was still swollen and full with the child that was never meant to be. "I don't know how many times I can do this," she moaned as her husband handed her a tissue to wipe her nose. "How many times are we supposed to have our hearts broken? Isn't there a god out there that cares?"
The twin stone was warm in the older woman's hand as she watched and listened to the couple on the couch. A strand of gray-streaked hair worked loose from behind her ear as she twitched, the sudden sensation catching her by surprise.
Her gut ached as if hot knives had been driven straight through it, and the urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming. They'd been coming in since the first miscarriage nearly three years prior. This one was by far the worst. The obstetrician had told them that the baby had become tangled in its own umbilical cord and that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it. Up until that visit, it had been a healthy pregnancy. Kathleen said she had felt wonderful and been healthier than ever before, eating better and exercising regularly. Simon had painted the spare room and built a crib, adding stuffed animals and little loving touches all around in preparation for the family they'd always wanted.
And now, it was all gone. The two of them were back on the woman's couch, crying over all the children that never took and the one that finally had.
The journey has been so long and so difficult, the older woman thought, tracing the smooth river rock in her hand. That hope is still there. Don't lose sight of it. This is not the end.
The older woman sat in her familiar chair and held in her palm the well-worn stone, its face further eroded by years spent under the gentle motions of her thumb. Her raven hair had gone from a salt and pepper gray to a fine mane of silver, and she kept it tucked neatly in a bun, secured with a pencil at the back of her head. The young man sitting on the couch across from her flipped the long stone anxiously between his fingers, fidgeting restlessly with it as he worked out his story.
"It's like nothing I do is ever enough," he says, agitation more than evident in his voice. "I don't know why I bother."
In the past weeks, his apathy had evolved into anger. He had moments of clarity in everything, but still, his troubles consumed him. The older woman's head throbbed and her blood coursed furiously through her veins. When he suddenly looked up at her, everything went cold.
"I don't even know why you bother. Everyone said you were the best of the best. You're just a fraud like all the others. All you've done is made things worse." He stood up and looked at the rock in his hand, scrunching up his face in disgust before throwing it on the ground. "Life was better when I didn't have to feel." He turned and headed for the door as the older woman struggled to her feet, her body sore and tired from his anger.
"Alex, wait," she stretched out a hand but he was gone. The door slammed hard behind him and she could hear his footsteps as he disappeared down the hallway.
The older woman sat back down in her chair with a sigh. A few moments later, as she was just getting back to her feet, the door opened and a radiant young woman with jet black curls poked her head in. "What happened?"
The older woman looked to her visitor with sad eyes and heavy shoulders, holding out the twin stone, which had been broken in half. For a long while, neither of them said anything. Finally, the younger woman spoke.
"I'm sorry," was all she said.
Several years later, the younger woman stood before a sea of people, all dressed in black. Many faces in the crowd were ones she had never met. Many more of them had never met one another, and almost all of them would never meet again.
"It truly is humbling to see all of you here today," the raven-haired woman said into the microphone as the murmuring in the room dwindled to a few scattered sniffles and sobs. "I always knew that my mother's touch was far-reaching, but I never imagined just how many lives she had touched."
A blonde-haired woman in one of the middle pews began crying. A few heads turned to see her husband wrap an arm around her shoulders while a pair of curly-haired twins on her lap leaned back in tandem to give her a hug and bury their faces in her dress.
The woman at the microphone continued.
"For a long time, I thought that the work of a therapist was to sit, listen, and pretend to care. It's how movies and TV shows make us out, but when it came to her patients, my mother couldn't have been any more involved." She paused to take a deep, shaky breath as her thumb traced the outer contours of a smooth stone in her hand behind the podium. The pad of her finger passed over the craggy, broken edge and she bit her lip to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Not yet.
"When I was little, my mom used to tell me to listen, really listen, to other people. She always said that the best listeners used their hearts, not their ears, to understand another person's pain. She dedicated her life to helping others because she believed that no one should ever have to suffer alone. Today, I see in all of you that, in death, she is surrounded by more love and compassion than anyone could ever have hoped for someone like her. I'm sure it goes without saying for anyone who ever knew her, but I guarantee you, she knows, and she feels all the love and gratitude and kindness from all of you right now." As she blinked down at the remaining words on the paper in front of her, the words swam and blurred as the tears she'd been fighting broke down her defenses.
The younger, raven-haired woman laughed woefully. "I can't read the rest of what I wrote, so I'll just say this last thing my mom always used to tell me when I was hurting." She took a deep breath and squeezed the broken river stone in her hand, imagining the warm grasp of her mother's hand squeezing back.
"No matter who you are or what you're going through, you are never, ever alone."
But no one is ever alone.
***
"So, how are you doing today, Amber?"
"I'm alright, I guess," the young woman said as she sat down on the couch, playing with her long brown hair.
The older woman took a seat in her chair across from her patient, settling herself comfortably and picking up a smooth stone off the table, gesturing for Amber to do the same. "Are your nightmares still giving you trouble?"
The girl nodded as she settled back into the cushions of the couch and closed her eyes, running her thumb over the flawless surface of the river rock in her hand. "It's the same thing as always: I'm at a party and someone comes over and grabs me by the arm and they drag me off through the crowd and nobody does anything about it. I can scream, I can kick, but it's like I'm not even there. The person -- I guess it's a guy, I don't know. It seems like it'd be a guy -- drags me off into another room and throws me on the floor. The door closes behind him and it all goes black." She opened her eyes and looked at the raven-haired woman in the chair with an expression of hopelessness. "That's it. I can never get past that point. At least, I couldn't, but somehow, I felt like I almost might."
"Why is that?"
She shook her head and leaned back against the armrest again. "I don't know. I thought I almost saw his face this time. Maybe I'm misremembering it though."
"What do you think the figure is? Or who?"
Amber closed her eyes and thought for a moment, continuing to trace the contours of the river rock. "I guess it could be me, in a way, I mean, that's what I've read about dreams like this. It's usually the subconscious or something." She paused again, but the older woman said nothing, letting the girl think. "I guess it could also be... him."
Pain shot through the older woman's head, like a lance passing straight through one temple and out the other. She gritted her teeth and said nothing as images of hands, shadows, and nondescript settings flashed across her vision. She could hear screaming, crying, and a calm tenor voice telling her there was nothing to worry about and that everything would be okay. She passed her thumb back and forth over the surface of the rock in her hand.
"Are you alright?"
The girl on the couch made a small, helpless noise as she fought to hold back tears. With her eyes squeezed shut, she shook her head furiously.
"Take deep breaths and let the images and feelings come. It's okay. You're safe here."
The older woman closed her eyes and let the trauma wash over her as well. Anger, fear, and nausea consumed her as her surroundings transformed into the harsh false reality that Amber was reliving in her mind. Keeping her breathing steady, the older woman watched and absorbed what she could. Eventually, the flashback ended, and when she opened her eyes they were back in the room with Amber sobbing softly on the couch.
You've seen so much for someone so young, the older woman thought as a single tear rolled down her cheek. It'll be all right in the end. You're strong. So very strong. You just don't see it yet.
***
The blonde-haired woman was inconsolable with grief. Her husband sat beside her on the couch with his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm gently. Outwardly, he looked composed, but his eyes betrayed him. They held hands around a small gray stone, worn smooth by water and time.
"We've tried five times," the man said, his voice tight. "We really thought this would be the one. Seven months, and then the heartbeat just... stopped."
His wife's pained sobs redoubled at the mention of their unborn baby's heartbeat. Her abdomen was still swollen and full with the child that was never meant to be. "I don't know how many times I can do this," she moaned as her husband handed her a tissue to wipe her nose. "How many times are we supposed to have our hearts broken? Isn't there a god out there that cares?"
The twin stone was warm in the older woman's hand as she watched and listened to the couple on the couch. A strand of gray-streaked hair worked loose from behind her ear as she twitched, the sudden sensation catching her by surprise.
Her gut ached as if hot knives had been driven straight through it, and the urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming. They'd been coming in since the first miscarriage nearly three years prior. This one was by far the worst. The obstetrician had told them that the baby had become tangled in its own umbilical cord and that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it. Up until that visit, it had been a healthy pregnancy. Kathleen said she had felt wonderful and been healthier than ever before, eating better and exercising regularly. Simon had painted the spare room and built a crib, adding stuffed animals and little loving touches all around in preparation for the family they'd always wanted.
And now, it was all gone. The two of them were back on the woman's couch, crying over all the children that never took and the one that finally had.
The journey has been so long and so difficult, the older woman thought, tracing the smooth river rock in her hand. That hope is still there. Don't lose sight of it. This is not the end.
***
The older woman sat in her familiar chair and held in her palm the well-worn stone, its face further eroded by years spent under the gentle motions of her thumb. Her raven hair had gone from a salt and pepper gray to a fine mane of silver, and she kept it tucked neatly in a bun, secured with a pencil at the back of her head. The young man sitting on the couch across from her flipped the long stone anxiously between his fingers, fidgeting restlessly with it as he worked out his story.
"It's like nothing I do is ever enough," he says, agitation more than evident in his voice. "I don't know why I bother."
In the past weeks, his apathy had evolved into anger. He had moments of clarity in everything, but still, his troubles consumed him. The older woman's head throbbed and her blood coursed furiously through her veins. When he suddenly looked up at her, everything went cold.
"I don't even know why you bother. Everyone said you were the best of the best. You're just a fraud like all the others. All you've done is made things worse." He stood up and looked at the rock in his hand, scrunching up his face in disgust before throwing it on the ground. "Life was better when I didn't have to feel." He turned and headed for the door as the older woman struggled to her feet, her body sore and tired from his anger.
"Alex, wait," she stretched out a hand but he was gone. The door slammed hard behind him and she could hear his footsteps as he disappeared down the hallway.
The older woman sat back down in her chair with a sigh. A few moments later, as she was just getting back to her feet, the door opened and a radiant young woman with jet black curls poked her head in. "What happened?"
The older woman looked to her visitor with sad eyes and heavy shoulders, holding out the twin stone, which had been broken in half. For a long while, neither of them said anything. Finally, the younger woman spoke.
"I'm sorry," was all she said.
***
Several years later, the younger woman stood before a sea of people, all dressed in black. Many faces in the crowd were ones she had never met. Many more of them had never met one another, and almost all of them would never meet again.
"It truly is humbling to see all of you here today," the raven-haired woman said into the microphone as the murmuring in the room dwindled to a few scattered sniffles and sobs. "I always knew that my mother's touch was far-reaching, but I never imagined just how many lives she had touched."
A blonde-haired woman in one of the middle pews began crying. A few heads turned to see her husband wrap an arm around her shoulders while a pair of curly-haired twins on her lap leaned back in tandem to give her a hug and bury their faces in her dress.
The woman at the microphone continued.
"For a long time, I thought that the work of a therapist was to sit, listen, and pretend to care. It's how movies and TV shows make us out, but when it came to her patients, my mother couldn't have been any more involved." She paused to take a deep, shaky breath as her thumb traced the outer contours of a smooth stone in her hand behind the podium. The pad of her finger passed over the craggy, broken edge and she bit her lip to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Not yet.
"When I was little, my mom used to tell me to listen, really listen, to other people. She always said that the best listeners used their hearts, not their ears, to understand another person's pain. She dedicated her life to helping others because she believed that no one should ever have to suffer alone. Today, I see in all of you that, in death, she is surrounded by more love and compassion than anyone could ever have hoped for someone like her. I'm sure it goes without saying for anyone who ever knew her, but I guarantee you, she knows, and she feels all the love and gratitude and kindness from all of you right now." As she blinked down at the remaining words on the paper in front of her, the words swam and blurred as the tears she'd been fighting broke down her defenses.
The younger, raven-haired woman laughed woefully. "I can't read the rest of what I wrote, so I'll just say this last thing my mom always used to tell me when I was hurting." She took a deep breath and squeezed the broken river stone in her hand, imagining the warm grasp of her mother's hand squeezing back.
"No matter who you are or what you're going through, you are never, ever alone."