She sat on the floor in the corner of her bedroom crying. It hurt. It hurt beyond imagining, a pain that had settled in the depths of her stomachs and made a nest there. Like wasps chewing up her organs, regurgitating and reassembling them within her. She was barely a person now, not a human being but a vessel for her pain.
Her friends had reached out to her at first, calling her and knocking on her apartment door. She’d answered them for as long as she was able, for as long as her strength had held out. She’d opened the door and smiled like an alien or a robot struggling to be human. They would offer to listen, but she had nothing to say. They would offer diagnoses and cures, but they were always wrong. They dispensed their advice, and when they found she had no response, they sat there in silence. When that grew unbearable, they found an excuse to leave. Some of them would place their hands over hers and smile weakly. “I know it hurts,” they would say, “but it it will get better. The pain will go away.”
But it hadn’t. It had only ever grown worse.