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I GUESS, SOMETIMES WE ALL GET SOME KIND OF HAUNTED. (SOME KIND OF HAUNTED). AND I NEVER THINK OF HIM. EXCEPT ON MIDNIGHTS LIKE THIS.
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Time heals all wounds, at least that's what everyone is told starting from a young age. Time sits there, stitching up each and every gash with a tenderness no person could ever spare. A wound so large, gaping and exposed to a cruel world that will stick its hands into it to make people hurt. To make people bleed. Time is the one to fix those wounds, time is the one that sits delicately and manages to move around the painful parts. To pick and choose what exactly it is that needs to be fixed first, ultimately making that wound smaller to the world. Keeping the world out of it, allowing the very person it once hurt to understand the world meant nothing of it. The world (more-so the people within it) just likes to kick people when they're down, to make sure that everyone understands just how much they're hurting. It's a sick and masochistic way of dealing with psychological pain, the only type of wound that time does not seem to mend. Time can heal a person physically, keep that wound protected from the outside forces. Time can allow people the chance to move forward, but time does not always fix the wounds left on people's psyche. The scrapes and bruises people get on their heart after a breakup, or that sadness that settles deep within someone's bones and refuses to find a new place to live, even that pesky fear that bubbles up in their stomach when it comes to doing something again that once caused them to get hurt.
Time does not heal all wounds, sometimes the owners of the wound have to mend it themselves.
Which, Augustine Watson would like to say, is a lot easier said than done. It's a lot easier to say and tell yourself, you're going to get over him. That it'll be easy once you're gone, once you're out. Except, it's not. Even when you leave for a good reason, when you leave because you had to leave, you're left with bruises you're not sure will heal. Augustine Watson had gaping, sore, and somehow still open wounds from years and years of digging them to be bigger. From years of fixing herself to be someone she wasn't, someone the world and people around her wanted her to be. Wounds like that aren't healed by time, wounds like that aren't ones in its parameter to fix. Or maybe, as Augustine liked to think, time just walked straight past her. Turned a blind eye to the pain she was suffering through, to the things she had been put through. Time walked right by and left her paralyzed by the door between healed and hurt — leaving her in this place where she took hit after hit and had no way to fix herself. See, Augustine Watson wasn't sure when she lost herself. She wasn't sure when her priorities shifted to display those of everyone around her — when she became the shell of a human being that gave and gave with nothing in return. When she gave her all to a relationship with a man who barely gave her the time of day (funny, especially considering they had been attached at the hip since they were nine), or when she gave her everything to becoming the perfect daughter for her parents. Giving her all in medical school, working her ass off to become something that everyone else wanted her to be.
