The Door Girl, Part 11

My life support was gone. She was gone. And within a short amount of time, I learned the art of filling up that hollow well inside of me. That hole was a place deep inside of me that was bursting with truth and pain. It was a seeping wound, constantly growing new cells of healing only to be ripped open anew. That place had a name, an address, a definite location in the pit of my stomach. If I chose to, I could delve my hands down and lift out that round heavy stone that dwelled inside of me—the way one digs their hands down in to a pumpkin and scoops out the seeds, digging their nails along the flesh of the inside. Instead, I held it inside of me. I woke with it, ate with it, spoke with it, bathed with it and slept with it. I read with it, rowed boats and wrote words with it. Everything I did, I held the stone heavy in my stomach and guarded it like the soldiers at the tomb of Jesus. It was my cross and the thing that slowly killed me day and night. But it was also the thing that taught me true compassion and made me embrace the humanness of mankind. This burden had become the most beautiful and the ugliest thing inside of me.