Keeping still

You don't wish to comfort or assure anymore, because mere words mean nothing.

It is far more painful to watch; and if given the chance to choose the lesser torture you'd rather take the stripes, the pain and the ridicule on yourself than be forced to watch it happen from a distance. As a spectator, the stripes cut twice as deep, the pain twice as bitter and the ridicule twice as crippling. Because as a spectator you cannot cry out, or retaliate, or release your frustrations in the pain, as a spectator you cannot do anything. Oh what you would give...

Your arms crave to shelter, your fingers ache to crush something to its dust, your feet are ready to whisk something to safety, with every fiber of your being you long to reach in and intervene. The urge is so strong, so instictive, so much a part of you, you cant even remember how you came to have it.

But with that torture, you stand aside, and you watch.
A deep well stirs within you, but you swallow it.

Because life has to run its course; even if it means watching something you love break to be moulded into something more beautiful.

Was this how you felt Mary?
How did you survive it? Because I don't feel I can.