STORY: ______?

The girl sat across the green park bench, the wind softly blowing her black hair to and fro. She sat there fidgeting with her black hairband, wrapping it around her index and middle finger, and then undoing what she had just done. Staring off into the distance, with her back against the wall, she recounted stories of her past; those past wounds that have never quite healed the way they were supposed to. For only knowing him for a few weeks, she opened up several things from her past, as the clock pressed forward, never interrupting her. He could only sit there and listen, contributing a minor story or two to show that he was both listening, and understood how she felt, but never wanting to take away from her story. After all, she was the focus. For whatever reason, she felt that these things needed to be said. He wasn't going to stop her.

As she remembered, he noticed the employees of the funeral home across the street closing up for the day, turning off lights and preparing to leave. He found this symbolic of what was happening, but was not sure how or why.

He reached his hand across the table, inviting her to take it in hers, just to calm her down. They shared a friendship which was platonic. He was not trying to evoke romance, but knowing the serenity that a hand could provide. They say holding someone's hand, even in a platonic nature, can help decrease anxiety, and as she remembered more about what she's been through, he could see her displaying several signs that she was getting worked up. After all, any type of physical contact can help release oxytocin, which helps establish feelings of trust and bonding. And in this situation, that support seemed to be the best form of support he could offer. She reached out and took his hand, confirming his suspicions of anxiety, and allowed her to continue with her recounting, pausing only briefly to grab another cigarette out of her car, and reaching for his lighter on the bench, inhaled a deep breath of smoke. A deep breath is a deep breath. He smiled somberly as she pressed forward.

Her stories continued escalating, each portion more personal than the last. He watched her, reading the expressions in her eyes, as memories flashed in front of her mind's eye. Occasionally, her eyes would well up, but he didn't catch her cry, although he could tell she wanted to. She was presenting herself strong.

The memories finally caught up to her, as she pulled her knees to her chest, folding her hands in front of her knees, in what he took to be a sign of retreat. He knew the stories would not gain intensity until she opened herself back up, but that was her choice. Again, he reached out for her to take his hand, if she so chose. She was not going to experience the horror of her memories alone, if she did not want to. Glancing at their phones, they realized that nearly an hour had passed, and remembering prior commitments, they started to say their goodbyes, however the stories started again, and they remained talking, although standing up, reminding one another simply by body language that they would soon have to depart.

A fine rain began to assault them, with a small whisper of wind, and a chill running down their spines in the early spring air, they parted ways. But he sat in his ran down car for what seemed like hours considering all things that were said, and what he can do with this knowledge. He contemplated what his life's mission was supposed to be, and considered the possibilities open to him. One thing he felt certain of was that he was needed to help her, just like so many others before her. He was needed at least one more time.