The initial story that she was a strong, devoted woman of courage enmeshed in a tragicly fated love was the first option and the one she sketched, developed, nourished and persisted in believing. She saw herself at the epicenter of the disaster, kneeling on the ground and clutching at the pant legs of her beloved, as though her grip could hold his soul to life. The image of herself standing at the top of a well also came to mind. There he was down in the dark solitude of his despair and she shown above like the sun with a hand outstretched to save him. Ill fated love that with faith, hope persistence and unconditional adoration could be overcome with the reward of a someday happy ending.
Then came a day after a long while left alone, having not heard a word from him, that it occurred to her that there might be no truth in any of it. That it was all an elaborate fairytale which sought to simplify the complexities and trickier details of the whole nasty affair. At the time the notion came to her mind a new image arrived: of a world strewn about like heaps of junk. In the middle of it all, trying to make sense of the useless, discarded, frivolous things, she saw herself like a child, believing a delicious lie. The scene was a rerun from the movie Labyrinth, which in childhood had taught her to be careful what you ask for because you just might get it.
And so it came about that a crisis of consciousness set in her delicate psyche. Two stories she could see braiding her into the present moment through their interpretations of all the events of the past two years. There was no way she could peak back with a purely objective eye, or call up other parties for their take on events. Alone, in the confinement of night and with only the electric light of the monitor, with the learned human ability of language could she begin to sift through the details (tainted even so by the dust of time and the untrusthworthy lens of personal experience) did she, brave and courageous woman, begin to write her story anew.