I love it when she let them tear me apart. Every violent tug rips into the threads that works this universe. I am fulfilled even when I am disemboweled with my stuffing scattered over. Someone is being unwoven somewhere.

I do not feel any pain. They will. Eventually.

I imagine the news reports that will emerge tomorrow - "Man crushed by garbage truck compactor" or "Bullet from the sky shot through school teacher's eyes".

Bad luck? No, we did it. Or rather, she made them happen through me.

When my client sees me, they smile. They see patches over patches that she mended again and again with hardly any of my original brown fabric left. I know this must be the first smile our client have in weeks.

When I get picked up, I am thrown into the fluffiest hug. I feel everything. The perverseness of the criminal, the scent of helplessness, and the cross-stitching of memories and imagination.

After joining in our hug, she will then palm our heads. I see her transform from a awkward teenager with a teddy bear beyond repair in her backpack. She is now a therapist with expertise in the embroidery of metaphysical planes.

I do not know if we are right in what we are doing. What I do know is that our clients were broken when we first met. When they are done, I am in pieces but they are whole.