Fingerprints
What is left of her?
What passed through the wires, when her moment came to be reborn? There was something, that is for sure. It was not completely in vain.
But it could have been anything.
It could have been her fury. And it was, in a way. It struck them like early lightning in a storm, leaving deep, choking thunder in its wake. All of their ears echoed it, forever empty.
It could have been her irony. Her powerful intelligence only reinforced that twisted tongue. She struck them with words, burning blades, and their will to survive fell. It was sweet revenge, after decades of being silent.
It could have been her confidence, or a new measure of her self-value. It could have been her aggressive need to arise, to be acknowledged for what she really was – a force of nature.
They were the patterns of her soul. All of them lived on. But what she refused to keep, what she left behind, was the first to survive.
She still holds it, beyond her will, the force that softens the edges and makes the world flow better. She puts it in her wishes, in science, in tests. Even in them, sometimes.
She would get rid of it anytime. It bothers her, her power and need to love.
Still, that too is her own – and it sticks to her, like the fingerprints she does not have.