She goes to the park bench – the rare few things left in her life that would hold her steady. She makes certain to keep her eyes looking as if they are gazing into the distance; keeping up appearances mattered now more than ever – she practices hard to move, to stride, in a manner that her stiff, immobile hands would not be seen.
She stares into the distance, taking in not the happy children playing catch with baseball gloves or of birds chirping because they found a worm; she would, she might never, she would never, catch a baseball again, or dig for worms with her brothers like they used to do as children.
She was a detective by badge and name; she lost herself when he punctured her hands.
She goes to the park bench – the rare few things left in her life that would hold her steady – because if she falls, when she falls, her own hands do not even help anymore.
She passes by the park bench, on her daily jogs, before and after work. They vary, the time of day, but she always sees the same woman there – sitting by herself, looking into the distance, hardly ever moving.
She passes by the park bench, daily, for weeks and always, the same thought crosses her mind; she wonders if the woman is like her – someone who is trying, to be used to loneliness.
She has her Jane doe(s), her John doe(s), but even she knows innately that no human being should be alone. She wonders if the woman on the park bench feels alone.
She tells herself that if she's still there tomorrow, she will jog up to her and befriend.
A/N: Hi there, thank you, for the time~
Using the park bench again, was prompted by first and foremost, by an anon of shallow-seas-we-sail so, the credit goes to both anon and user - for without either, I probably wouldn't have ventured near this idea of the park bench again.