The Jimjam Times

I tried to run.

I tried to fight.

I swore that I’d kill her, that I’d rip her corpse to shreds. She only laughed and continued to drag me along. Her sword flourished, spinning and spinning faster than my eyes could follow, and never failed to cut off my escape. She etched a tally onto her blade every time she caught me, and I was yet too proud to admit I was scared of what that meant.

I could only bide my time.

She taught me how to fight like her, though I never managed to defeat her in any of our sparring matches. I wondered if she could tell I wanted to use what she taught me to plunge a knife into her back one day and free myself.

She must have known, and yet she taught me more. I thought she surely had a death wish, or perhaps I simply wasn’t a threat to her.

She told me about home. Nestled deep in the earth like the city of my birth was, but filled with colour and life. Haven carved out by those who were abandoned eons ago and yet refused to give in to the worst voices inside their souls.

She told me her home wasn’t a perfect place. Injustice sprang up like weeds even after being ripped from the earth time and again, cycles of pain repeated in maddening choruses. And yet, it sounded better than I could have imagined. It gave me hope that perhaps even one such as myself could eke out a good life there.

She told me about family, about friends and a home worth returning to.

A home she would never reach.

I watched the curse climb over her skin, rotting her from the inside and devouring her flesh. And yet, she laughed as though tomorrow could never catch up to her.

I couldn’t remember when we stopped sparring.

She assured me the curse wouldn’t infect me. I told her I didn’t care even if it did, as I carried her on my back during her weaker days. Her sword soon became strapped to my hip more often than it did to hers.

We slipped through forests. Trees turned into sand, leaves into stars and a horizon that ran away from us with every step we took. Through scorching heat and biting cold, we kept walking.

I asked her if we were close.

She pointed us towards where the sun rose every morning and said we must move forward. Even if the light burned our eyes, we must move forward towards the sunrise, she said.

I listened. I complained, told her she was a fool for forcing us on this journey, but I chased that sunrise for her.

The moon was bright on the night I lost her.

There was nothing left.

I was suddenly all alone. No one answered when I spoke aloud. There was no longer warmth on my back, stories in my ear, and laughter to wipe my frustration away. I screamed and nothing answered.

I held onto the sword she left behind.

knowing they don't mean anything by it. it happens with group conversations. things pop up in sub-groups within the conversation and everyone shifts along. it's never anything personal

but it sucks to be the one left there watching everyone turn away and direct their attention to something more worthy of their time