She needs to walk out of the door. Not look back or try to compromise with her thoughts. Where they lie in their present state becomes apparent when she hears that in her sleep she cried and tried to beg for something that only made her cry some more. What could be plaguing her mind; perhaps a deeply rooted, recently molested rudely awoken state of duress? The pains she imagines, and consistently gets told that she does nothing but imagine them, live inside her body - surely they exist. Perhaps time in its mystical way will unfold what is to be. It will unfold what is to be! Perhaps is just my denial. It stems from the untapped fear of it all being too late, by the time reality comes to terms with it all. Maybe's and What-if's together comprise the main ingredient that concocts and brews this dilemma into a froth of mayhem inside her fabric of being leaving it thoroughly wrought, plundered; asunder.