Wounded

She was only a shell of a person when I found her needing more than a hug. I can’t tell you her name – it’s private. She was broken like a baby bird that has fallen out of the oak tree nest high in the sky, left to wither and die, or to be played with and swallowed by the black cat that roams the streets, and not in a friendly way.

I cradled her in my arms, wrapping her in soft warmth, hoping to assuage this fractured soul even if she did not notice. She cried on my shoulder, streams of endless tears glistened and I was patient. I tried to absorb the hurt and replace the agony with love.

Her pain was on the inside in her heart – not in her head like some people think. She didn’t want to speak about it for long time. She kept it bound to her to relive over and over, playing like an old movie. A sad ending with the words, I just don’t give a damn, that soak into the heart. I waited and pushed away the thoughts of revenge she communicated.

Later, there were fewer tears and the red glassy eyes showed signs of healing and I was relieved. I almost sang, to be honest, even though I don’t have perfect pitch. I hate to see people in sorrow.

I continued to speak to her in a quiet voice so I wouldn’t upset her fragile nature. She didn’t seem to hear me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’m like that.

If I wasn’t…what kind of angel would I be?


Word Count: 270