We are driving. The city flashes by as we hurtle down the road, it seems, at break-neck speed. The sights are beautiful. Boutiques, high street stores, even the people sashaying down the street are glamorous. London. A typical scene. They are, however, completely insignificant. This is not the reason we came to be here. We sit, worlds apart, in the back of the taxi, anticipating arriving at our destination, simultaneously dreading it...
...Suddenly the lights change and the car is forced to come to a stop. I take her hand; squeeze her fingers ever so slightly. Such a simple gesture, the touch so light it was barely real. She felt it, however, and squeezed back. No longer divided by the situation, but what seemed a universe, we are united. I am strong because she needs me to be...I am strong because I need me to be...
...And so when the lights change once again, and the car resumes its journey, we both resign ourselves to the inevitability that awaits us...
The journey back is horrific. Soul-destroying. Pain is etched on every muscle in her face. This time, when she squeezes my hand, it is desperate. Painful, physically and mentally. She cries. For what she has done; what she has lost. All the while I am beside her. I stroke her hair, I hush her cries...I lay her down so that she is lying across the backseat of the taxi. Circumstances have forced us to use such transport, so that we don't even have the privacy we deserve at such a time. The taxi driver is worried sick, no doubt more about his seats than the well-being of my friend...
...Eventually, after what seems like hours, she quietens. Until her sobs are subdued to whimpers. Then she is asleep. Her head rested in my lap, I continue to stroke her hair, wipe her tears...
...And then I cry...
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