She was a warrior, wielding an invisible weapon. No one knew her name, her face, or her place of origin. She was simply invisible for the greater duration of her everyday existence, appearing only when someone brandished their anger on a fresh blade of vocal outcry. She was the weapon, wielding another weapon capable of greater damage.
A word here, an action there, hints bring sprinkled into the fire, fueling the warrior within us all. There is almost no restraint, because the warrior knows not of holding back, of fleeing instead of fighting. It is all her weapon knows, all she knows, all the person wielding her knows.
There is only one objective, void of the reason to come after the fire dies down and regret starts running in to fill the gaps left behind. The drive is to hurt. Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt. Vengeance. An eye for a life. Pain for emptiness. A stroke on the cheek for a cruel slap.
And always, after the warrior has had her fill, has reached her needed quota to grow her continuous existence, she leaves. Without a word. Without a blink of her invisible eye. Without a wave of her hand, the one without the weapon. She simply goes, gone.
Each time, all that is left after the battle is a watery pot of emptiness. And within the pot, swimming around idly, sometimes panicked, is guilt. After all, the warrior isn't simply the side to a coin. There is more complexity than we can imagine, more spaces than we can count. She is a small dot on a shape covered in other messes.
The warrior, and her companions.
The warrior, and her enemies.
YOU ARE READING
A Window to Another World
RandomJust little scraps, pieces of ideas that suddenly come to me. Windows into different realities, fascinating worlds, and exotic stories.
