by Rachel Artstein
Another unthinkable assault enrages her. Not the visions or explosions in her head as a result of the attack, but the crudeness of the wounding. She is unsteady, unready for this battle. Nothing has prepared her for this pain and humiliation. No one cares. Bastard!
Staring it down in red-hot fury she dared it to invade yet again - stealing even one more fragile, irreplaceable fragment. She blindly fumbles her hand towards its all-powerful visage, pleading. She is met with a shattering blow. Precious shards scatter across the universe of her mind. Mine!
Oceans ebb and flow, waves dashing against towering cliffs, calming her as she remembers. Healing. Reaching deep into her safe place she wrested from her soul’s depths the memory of how it was when she was whole. She wrapped herself with that steel will, learned in a white-hot hell, overflowing with grief and despair. Breathe calm; breathe deep. War!
Amid screeches of madness, as colors and heat exploding from it intensified, she seized it, grasping it in a burning embrace. Drinking from it till it was pale and weak and cold, her thirst quenched, she wept. Engulfing her scattered fragments one by one, growing stronger, until it no longer existed. Dead!
Triumph is cool, silent, powerful. Alive!