Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE WORLD HAS A FUNNY WAY OF REJECTING YOU, making you feel small, insignificant. Weak.
How do you fight a world that is no longer made for you? Pushed in front of someone like a barricade, or a steady brick wall, to protect them rather than yourself.
When you're raised to be a soldier, you forget what it's like to be human. To be a child. To fight a losing battle between the land of the living and the one beyond, to fear being outside at night alone because of the dead who lurk and the hardly human men that prowl the dark for cursed treasure.
Every breath is constricted. Every movement painful.
Every beat of your heart a constant reminder that you're alive, only to remember that you were put on this Earth to suffer. To think that every feeling, every sensation of living could very well be your last.
Tainted.
Memories of a loving childhood, stained with the blackness of orphancy and the loss of a warm embrace. Nothing feels pure anymore; just a coffee ring stain on a dusty white windowsill.
Persie Harrow felt like a monster. Unable to accept love and affection from those around her, not even praise satiating her cold dead heart. She had to be the best, or the better, had to prove not only to the world but to herself that she was not her emotions, or lack of, nor the whispers in her ear.
She was a Harrow. The only name ever bound to her that she cared for, a reminder of parents that stung in the place where her heart should be. And that all meant that she was to be the strongest, never weak or afraid. Promising to be the soldier she was trained to be, not the tear stained weakling she once was.
