A Fool on the Imaginary Battlefield

I hate the beast. 

It makes me feel weak. It does not make me feel strong.

I rise to fight it yet again, but I am met only with myself on the battlefield. This is much like staring into a mirror, but I wait for the reflection to change. It cannot just be me on the other side. 

Fool. 

So here I am. Clammy hands, tight chest, intermittent breath, raging headache, and a mildly sore stomach. The signs of a true hero. Let me raise my sword with dignity and lash down at what makes me feel so inferior and stressed—no, hopeless. That’s the feeling. Raising your army to fight and discovering your opponent fled in the night. If they even existed. 

There is no army. There is no enemy. Still, I fight. 

I have become the beast that rages against the rough corners of a tightly welded cage, repeatedly bashing into the sides—like it could do anything—until the swirling metallic taste of the blood on the cold iron becomes so melded together that I cannot tell if I taste myself or my oppressor.

I take in a breath. 

It is not iron anymore. It is glass. I can see outside, at the world that I think put me here. I am not met with hateful eyes or a scalding cattle prod, but with an onslaught of pitied looks. I return my tired and aching body to the cold and callous floor, and retreat into myself even further. 

⁂

Dawn gently caresses and welcomes me back to reality. I can’t see the pillowcase stained with my tears, I flipped it over long ago. I cannot trigger my fickle mind, I cannot wake the tired beast. I rise anew. A fool no longer, those most biological and primitive signals overcometh.

I move languidly and lazily to the bathroom and sit down to pee. Afterwards, I walk into the kitchen to brew myself a much needed cup of tea. 

DING. My phone. I pick it up and it opens to the photo I saw last night. 

Something uneasy and sickening slithers in my stomach. The beast is awake. 

by Alicja Krotofil