Word Count: 311
I Carry Your Heart
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She is not religious.
She does not believe in heaven, and hell couldn't be worse than the world she lives in.
God, if there is one, is not merciful, allowing children to be sent out to fight his wars.
She is bitter; filled to the brim with the aftertaste of could-have-been's and once-upon-a-time's, with hopes she can't guarantee will be fulfilled. To her, what matters can only be now, because the future is too uncertain and the past is too painful.
Her world is small, compared to others. When she was young and sad and refused to fight, they'd put her in a small, gray room where the furniture was bolted and the windows painted over.
Each day a new face would approach her. Each time they asked her how she could be selfish enough to deny God. "You have a gift to save the world," they told her. "People are dying because of you," they blamed.
And she thought, 'What has God done for me? The world means nothing to me. I am alone.'
And then one day her brother showed up, a dark black against the interior gray she'd been so used to and he had looked older and sadder and tired, but she had loved him for all of it. He had held her to his chest and she'd thought, 'I will fight for you.' And so she did.
Now her world, though still small in comparison, has grown larger. Each death breaks her heart and each new day bandages it.
Sometimes when everyone has gone to bed, she stays up and watches them. She studies the faces of every comrade, every person that fights beside her and takes them into herself. They are her stars, her continents, her home. They are her world.
She is not religious, but each day she wakes up and prays.
"Dear God…
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