Fragments, Part II [Thank You for the Thread and Needle]

Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The progress of yet another twenty-four hours. They blend so obscurely that there's no distinction between one and the next.

And yet, sometimes, there is. Because there are those few precious hours each day when the insanity subsides and clarity takes root.

Her fragmented soul need not exist in such a broken state all of the time. She first learned slowly, painfully, how difficult it is to trust another human being; she then learned even more slowly how nice it is when you can.

She sits in pieces in her chair and stares numbly at the words before her. They're meaningless. "There lies information I'll never need, never want, never use," she mutters furiously. She sighs--one of those deep, menacing half-growls--and then proceeds to read on.

When the phone rings, she is eager to answer. Excited, perhaps. For on the other end of the line sits someone she knows and trusts, someone whose fate has become so entwined with hers that their similarities are uncanny. Someone who cares.

"I'll be right over," that someone says, her voice as weary as our fragmented girl feels. The sigh that escapes her lips this time lacks the ferocity of the first, its temperament one of joyful relief.

A half-hour passes, and she waits anxiously. The words on the page are no longer empty. Each letter is distinct and pronounced, each phrase an actual collection of meaning.

When the doorbell rings, she smiles, a gesture so treasured that she savors it for a moment. As the door opens, her expression is reflected by one so similar that she nearly laughs.

"I brought everything I could," the dear friend says clearly, closing the door. "All the books. Want to start with Gov?"

"Sure," the girl states in a happier tone. "Let's get going."

And the next five hours are more distinct from the previous thirteen than she ever dreamed possible. She lets the ecstasy in the air bathe her skin in its gratifying glee, watching as it does the same to her friend.

Both are tired and weary, their faces drawn after so little sleep the night before. Both are bored to tears with the books before them, their smiles only plastered on because the other girl is present. Because the other girl puts it there.

More than friends, the girls are sisters. Sisters not by blood, but by choice. As they stand united against a force more powerful than any imaginable, the bond between them is strengthened, more and more each day. No amount of agony or suffering will destroy the ties that bind them together in this battle.

Because it is a battle. It is a struggle every day, to rise and meet the enemy with unwavering courage. There is something to be said for the power of sisterhood and brotherhood, a something so few can put into words. Something she never can quite put her finger on.

As she sits at the table--music loud, pencils flying across the page--she notices for the first time that her fragmented soul has mended itself. That the scars snaking across her battered heart have been healed. With no fear, no chaos, and no regrets, she feels as though she can do this. She will make it.

She will survive the downfalls and hurricanes. She will conquer the terrors and demons. She will live not only for herself, but for her sister. The girl who unknowingly brought a needle and thread to their studying session and used it sew up the pieces of her little sister's soul.

And she will also remember these days for the moments when she felt whole, not the hours when she fell apart.

Because those broken hours are almost never worth a second glance.