“I cannot be fixed. I … am too … broken for that to happen.”
He was curled up at a crossroads; his hands tightly wound around his torso, his grimy face angled downwards in a pitiful self-embrace.
“Look at me. Look at me!” She urged, as she knelt beside him. She grabbed at his hands and tried to pull him up. He would not budge: like a stubborn rock that refuses to yield to sea and erode.
“I can hear it. I can hear its pounding footsteps all the time. It is out there. Always out there to take me back in its clutches,” he let go of his shoulders that he had fiercely hugged a moment before; and placed his hands over his ears to shut out the noisy approach of his predator.
She looked anxiously at the road that led to south and began pulling at him again. Her repeated attempts finally succeeded in dragging him up from the fetal position he had succumbed to in some forgotten instinct of protection and safe harbor.
His limbs in disarray, his eyes shut, he whimpered. She took his hands in hers; and leaned forward.
“It is called the Past for a reason. It has gone, happened, been done with. It is upon you whether you allow It to revisit or not. For it would be always out there: hungry, desperate for that moment of weakness when you would slip and roll back into its embrace.”
He opened his eyes feebly; and looked at the kind eyes that stared back at him.
“This is where you decide which road you want to take,” she whispered.
“Who are you? and why would you want to help me?” he asked.
She smiled kindly.
“Time is there to help heal every wound.”
And then, she pointed towards the road that twisted into the north; a white direction sign was perched in the asphalt with the word ‘Future’ emblazoned upon it.