The asphalt was cold from the rain as it pressed against my back. My bare arms were limp by my sides, as I stared at the sky, unable to move, unable to speak. If I looked, I could see the hilt of the sword that protruded from my chest.
I tried, again, to shift my head, to locate, to see, Damien. I wanted to see my sword, protruding from his body, his blood leaking out, staining the puddles of water he was in the same shade of red I knew I’d see if I could see myself.
“I was ready.” The thought repeated in my head. Echoed again, and again, “I was ready.”
We’d agreed to meet, to talk of how he’d taken my family from me. One by one, they’d abandoned me, to join him. Our war had left me broke, bankrupt in every way, no money, no possessions, and no friends.
He’d won. We both knew that.
I will always remember his face as I opened my case to hand him the title to my home, and instead drew my sword, and shoved it through his torso. I will always remember the look of betrayal, the blind rage.
Imagine my shock when he remained standing long enough to draw his sword, and run me through. We’d both fallen. Now, I was going to die with him, in the rain, in the dark.
“I was ready. And still, he won.”
I’m Not On Twitter Anymore.
Slowly returning to writing, starting with #ThursThreads Week 228. As always, this is hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read.