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My friend was hurt in ways I could never understand. Ways I don’t think I ever really, truly want
to understand.
Ways that make me want to make an empty promise to hurt the
person who harmed her in multiple ways.
Ways that will never happen because I’m not the person to
hand out revenge. That, is a job for
someone else. Not me. Nor will it ever be me. I may be conceited at times, but I’m not
stupid.
Whatever deity is up there help me if I ever have to. Take revenge, that is.
What hurts the most right now. What makes me frustrated, and upset, and half
of me want to scream, is that I wasn’t there for her. My friend was hurting and being hurt, accused of things she would never do even
in her wildest nightmares, and I wasn’t there.
I couldn’t defend her honor, protect her heart. Help her when she needed me the most.
Right now, I still feel like I can’t help her.
I know I can help. In
fact, I am. I’m standing by her
side. She needs me and all she has to do
is call. I’ll be her soundboard if she
needs it, her pillow to wipe away her tears -- Sorry, but I’m going to have to
draw the line at Kleenex. I may be
willing to share her pain, but buggers are a whole ‘nother ballpark.
But for now, that’s it.
I am there for her should she
need me.
Including there to metaphorically whack her upside the head
when she tells me she’s not worth it.
She’s my friend.
She’s worth it. End of story.
The ironic things about friends is that they want to protect
each other from the worst life has to offer.
I wasn’t there to help protect her from this in-understandable
pain. I may not have been able to take
all of it, since it is her pain, but I wish I had been there to help lesson it.
Half, even a third, is a lot less than a whole.
She wants to protect me from her pain. Doesn’t want to drag me into this mess. Is afraid, I think, that I’ll get sucked
right down with her.
The fun part about being stubborn when stuck in quicksand is
you tend to hang on a convenient vine and/or branch real hard. And almost nothing can drag you down.
In fact, if you’re stubborn enough, you’ll hang on long
enough for your friends to find you and pull you out.
If you ask.
Knowing you need help takes a lot of strength. It takes even more strength and courage and
heart to know when you need to ask.
She’s asked - and if she hasn’t asked then others have acted
- plenty of people who are helping her even now. My offer to help stands like me on the
sidelines. My hand’s outstretched. It’ll stay there for the rest of time.
I won’t act without permission. This is her life to lead, her life to live,
not mine.
But I also know that my arms will get tiered
eventually. That if I want to help, I
still have to be around.
Sanity wise, at least.
I’m lucky. I know it. My mother and father are here for me, ready
to listen to even my smallest fear. Not
everyone can boast about that.
If I’m going to be able to help my friend in the future, I
know I’m going to need help.
Fun thing about habits is that they’re hard to kick, making
them a true double edged sword. My
parents made it a habit to talk to them about even the little things.
So I go to them for the big things, too.
If this isn’t big, then Moby Dick was a goldfish.
I want to protect my friends. All of my friends. I know I can’t really do it. It’s not humanly possible to protect everyone
close to you. Life’s not fair like that.
So I’m gonna throw my lot in behind the one whose life is
utter hell (put mildly) and help where she feels I can do the most good.
I hope she understands, though, that even if I’m not strong
enough to handle helping her in the long run, I’ve got help to make sure I can.
I’m also hoping she sees that this Dragon she’s facing --
twenty feet wide, over a hundred feet tall, and spitting acid-laced fire --
doesn’t have to be fought alone. The Calvary’s no more than a breath away.
But now I’m probably playing a song the choir knows by heart
now.
My friend was hurt.
Is hurting now, even, as demons only she knows (and more than likely only
she can understand) charge in attack.
I don’t know how to help.
I really, honestly don’t.
I hope, though, that she can see me standing in the
sidelines, armor dawned and sword drawn, ready to start chanting:
Here, demi-demi-demi.
Here ugly. Time to come die!
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