I used to be a fighter. But I worry I don’t have much fight left in me. The battle got the best of me, you see. I limp on -dragging my weight behind me; wondering what made me fight so hard. My legs are weak and my body a collage of scars; each one a reminder of why battle isn’t always worth it. But what if it is this time? Do I have what it takes to withstand one last fight?
I think of the risk, and hesitate. There’s so much to gain yet so much to lose.
I can’t do it. Or can I? Risk everything? Give it all up.? Close my eyes and jump with the hope of being caught? I think for a moment of one reason…just one. And my mind draws a blank. All I can think of is the pain, the stitches, the tears. And how I’d fight tooth and nail only and only if someone would fight tooth and nail for me.
I used to be brave and candid. And then something happened -Snapped me out of my dreams of roses and chocolates and wines and dinners and dancing. A prick. A prick from a tiny little thorn on the stalk of that velvety red rose you knew I loved so much. And then the reds turned dirty, the roses wilted, the dinners stopped, the dancing got boring and the chocolates made me fat. All that was left was the wine. My sweet sweet red and I. But what was wine without you? What good was a fine bottle of the good stuff without the fancy dress and your adoring glance across the table?
The blood dried. The stains washed away. But the scar remains. A vivid reminder of why I resigned from battle. “War hero” they call it. But they don’t know better. How could they?