#ava1

He frowns, as he contemplates this destiny, when his musings are interrupted by the first violation, and his small world spins.

This, then, is what he is meant for.

He is staggered, as he rights himself, sighting his foe and aiming complaint like a counterattack.

His vexation falls on deaf ears.

All is as it is meant to be.

He is not mighty. He is not heard.

He is victim.

He will die.

Disconcerted, he pushes, and the small world breaks, and he falls out into the beyond. His small world is gone, broken to pieces and crushed under weight.

He is victim. He will be assaulted and abused, and then he will be gone as well. This is his purpose, to be a device for the reception of harm.

He knows this. He knows he is meant to receive slight and mockery and brutality and aggression.

But.

The unbound stays of his collapsed world become weapons, as he takes them in hand to ward off his foe.

And the victim attacks.

He fails. The victim is not meant to be triumphant, and he is thrown off and knocked down.

But he does not hesitate, he is not broken yet. He stands, and turns, and proclaims his ire, and attacks again.

He knows his message will not be received. If he were to be heard, he would cease to be victim. And to be victim is his purpose.

His purpose is to die.

He will be harmed. He knows.

But if the victim is defined by the harm visited upon him…

…then does it matter, what the victim does?

As he is yanked about, he strikes, and momentarily he has freed himself.

It will not last, he acknowledges, as he snatches up tools. Tools meant for use by his foe, but they welcome his intent just as well. Wielding them is no great struggle.

As the wreckage from the explosion settles, he has a moment to breathe, and he realizes what he’s been doing.

He reacts. He responds. He counters.

He is victim. He cannot take charge of his foe. He cannot take charge of his fate.

But he has charge of himself.

He can do what he wants.

It doesn’t matter what happens to him. It will happen to him, whether he wants it to or not.

But it doesn’t matter what happens to him, because he can do what he wants.

A thrill of astonishment courses through him, his hands almost shaking with it as he readies the eraser. On a whim, he playfully tosses the paintbrush, and his giddiness is only spurred on as he marvels at his ability to do so, watching as it flips over in the air before catching it again in his hand.

He did that. He can do that.

A whoop of joy erupts from him.

It’s so simple.

He brandishes his paintbrush, pointing it towards the cursor; a challenge aimed against his foe, a determined glint in his eyes.

He knows he will not win, in the end.

But this is not the end.  

He will die. But now, he is alive, and now, he fights, he runs, he makes, he thwarts, he outwits, he is.

.

.

.

He is still laughing when everything stills, the smiles paused on his faces.

Oh.

It’s over.

In the absence of motion, his split mind converges into one once more. One of him had a defensive hand held up, his face turned toward the Outside. Wait, it says. Hold on, just a moment, wait.

A plea, disregarded.

The victim was not heard.

As he had known he wouldn’t be. Why, then?

…well, why not? Better to try. To do all he can.

As he gazes wistfully across the expanse of the artboard, he wishes his timeline could’ve been a little longer.

A little more. Just a little more.

He wonders how much he could’ve done, with just a little more.

But he will not get more. He is victim. He will not be saved.

He has served his purpose. He is obsolete.

His life ends now.

He has done all he can, with what he was given.

The enormity of it strikes him.

He has done all.

Oh, how full, how full his life has been! And what fun he has known, what contention he has weathered, what discoveries he has found!

Short though it may have been, it was his, and no one else’s.