Disclaimer: Nope - don't own a thing, except for the ideas
for these little fanfics that are so deliciously fun to play around with.
Title: Voice
Summary: Sydney reflects. This vignette is a departure from my usual style.
Please let me know what you think. ** 1/1 **
** Please R & R ** I gain momentum and inspiration from any and all
opinions.
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This is the voice of my body.
Bruises, scrapes, angry red scratches and tears in my skin. This is the way it speaks to me.
I rise in the morning with the rest of the world and shower, all the while hearing the voice of my being, the utterances of my existence. Standing before the mirror, wiping the fog from the glass, I tend to my injuries and silence the cry of a body well used. A bandage here, an antiseptic lotion there, a collection of patches to hold myself together.
It used to be easy to quiet the murmur of my wounds. They were external, tangible. But lately, things have been different. No gauze, no stitch, no physical remedy has been able to quiet me. I tend to the skin but the soul feels no relief. And the voice of my body will not be stilled.
I am not afraid of pain.
I can withstand the physical blows, the stinging contact of fist against flesh, of weapon drawing blood. But a thorn pressed into my soul? I have been field rated for more years than I care to remember; I have been taught to fire a gun, to wield a knife, to use my hands as instruments of death. But to defend my heart? There is no training for this.
Love is a battlefield, I've heard it said. I've been considering recently that it is a battlefield strewn with bodies, the earth sodden with the red of bleeding hearts. It is a battlefield for which I was not prepared, a war with no proper weapons. I am in the throes of this fight, and I am not certain if I will emerge victorious.
His declaration stunned me, sent be reeling, stumbling blindly into unimagined agony. I have tried to defend against it, to come out swinging. I have been unsuccessful, my blows falling achingly short, my sight distorted by the glint of a gold band and the half-moon of tears rimming clover green eyes.
This pain is like none I have known.
I rise in the morning with the rest of the world and shower, all the while hearing the voice of my being, the scream of agony from my soul. I cannot soothe what I cannot see and I tip my head forward beneath the spray, washing away nothing except for my resolve. I am to the edge, exhausted and beaten down, the injury to my heart one that I cannot repair.
Desperation, sadness and anger-laced tears. This is the way it speaks to me.
This is the voice of my body.
*** fini ***