Strong

A Codename: Kids Next Door Fan Fiction

By

~CallMeButLove~

KND © Mr. Warburton

Strong

Writing Operative: ~CallMeButLove~

People think I'm strong. That's what I want them to think. I spend two or three hours everyday making myself look and feel strong. I sit here now and it occurs to me that I am not strong. Not at all. My weakness would fill the earth if it ever was exposed. I don't care anymore if it ever is. I used to care a lot, before. That was before when I was strong, now I am weak and I don't care.

I look at my hands, study them; they look strong. Big and tan and tough, the hands of a fighter. Not strong enough. I flex my arms, they could be called strong. I can lift twice my own weight with them, and I am not small. Still not strong enough. My legs are strong in some people's view, I can run fast and stay standing longer than the other guy. Again, not fast or strong enough. My back is broad, young and muscular. I can carry heavy loads and I won't bend. Strong? Not even close.

My heart should be strong. It's young, and physically fit, but it is broken, bruised and cracked – weak. My lungs have a strength, but not more than the essential. They keep me breathing, but they are too weak to keep me alive. My eyes have seen the cruelty of the the world already, they should be hard, cold, strong. Yet they weep here in the open hall where anyone might see. Weak. My spirit, you've said is strong, you've said nothing can tame it. It's like my heart now, shattered, cowering, weak.

I look down at the floor and see two turquoise bootied shoes stop toe to toe with my white ones. My neck is usually stiffly strong, but now it's too weak to lift my head. Too afraid to see the truth in the eyes of the person wearing the shoes. To weak to face losing you. Now there are turquoise knees in my sight and skilled hands, fingers interlaced. The hands move and grasp my shoulders. They feel strong. I am weak enough that the voice in the face compels me to look up. The words don't make sense. My mind is too weak. 'Go in' they say, 'You can see her now'. My throat is too weak to choke out any words back.

My legs find some strength, and I stand. My feet kept some and I step through the door. My eyes prove weaker still when I see you there. They slam shut against the bruises, the cuts, the bandages, the wires, the tubes. My ears too weak to accept the machines whirring, beeping and droning call my weak and useless hands to cover them. Turquoise is behind me now, and they must see the weakness because a chair is suddenly there. Weak, I sit. Weak, I stare. Weak, I cry.

No one will ever think I'm strong again. I couldn't stop this, why would they? I couldn't turn the light from red to green. I couldn't stop the drunk from driving, I couldn't do a damn thing. I have never really been strong. Someone strong would have been able to get you out. Someone strong would have gone to the store for you. Someone strong would have been with you. Someone strong would have died to save you. I am not strong, I was not there.

The final proof of my weakness comes when my will is overpowered, and I reach for your hand. The one not bloodied. The one not encased in plaster. The one closest to me on the bright white blanket. Too bright for my weak eyes. I hold the precious hand in my larger one, and press lips to weak to even whisper to the back of it. I cherish your delicate hand, weak I beg you silently to stay. The minutes tick away and I exist but, I am far to weak to live. Your hand is still in mine, and even that is a sign of my weakness, I am to weak to let go.

Just when my eyes slide shut, pressing even more tears down, weaker still. The hand in mine moves! I know now what you are telling me. Your hand squeezes mine, and my weak mind understands! You are the one who has always been strong. You are still strong, and will not leave me! There is one thing left inside me of strength – my faith in you is strong.

END