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to arrange the strands away from her cheeks. She smoothed her jeans and sweatshirt as she stood up and walked to the sidewalk bathed in the sobering morning light.
She sorted her emotions as she went. They closed in on her from every side. It felt like mental claustrophobia. She was left with little room for her sanity. Sanity was on the other side now. Her hold was precarious. As the sun came full, warming and brightening the morning light, Jenny's mood grew more distraught. Images of Bobby getting blown up flashed in her mind. She tried not to think those images, but she could not help herself. She wanted it to be different. She wanted Bobby without pain. She wanted him like he was, not emotionally paralyzed. Maybe he just should have died. She regretted the thought immediately. She hated who she was becoming. She just wanted anything, but to see him in pain. If he had to be hurt so badly, why couldn't he just be paralyzed? It had to be better than the constant spasms. He wouldn't need the whiskey to ease his mind, and the pills to ease his pain.

The empathy she thought she felt for him had just become a wall of pity protecting her heart and mind from his verbal assaults. That wall did more to lock the malignant pain in than it did to keep the new hurt out. She cried silently as she crossed Maple Street, instead of turning to go to her job. She just wanted to go home and cry into her pillow. Work would understand.
She looked worn out and tired, as she climbed the steps that led to her apartment over the two-car garage. She fumbled for the "gimmick" key, painted with pink hearts, and unlocked the front door. The door eased open slowly. Every few inches revealed more of the brightly decorated studio apartment. The flowers and bright pastels had come from an image in her heart. It did little to lift her mood. Lavender potpourri hung in the air. Even the light scent of lavender seemed to weigh heavily on her lungs. She flopped down on the couch, exhausted. She rubbed her eyes to relieve some of the stress. Between her fingers, she saw Bobby's next bottle of whiskey sitting on the table.
*
He felt horrible. It was way deep inside. When you pity yourself, all hope is lost. Bobby was lost. He was never going to be like the guy in the "Born on the 4th of July" flick. How can he do anything to help people? With the searing pain in his back he couldn't help himself. Bobby was going to rot away in the same twin bed he had grown up in.
The pain droned on like it always

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