“I am flesh and blood”
The words come softly. Her face pressed against the laminate wood flooring. Sprawled on the floor like the squashed remains of a fly; wings broken, body twisted. It seems to convulse with the remainders of life.
As she chokes through the sharpened lumps in her throat. The tide of sordid emotion, tainted waste, and stifled passions. Each coming out as rumbles of guttural lamentations of why.
Why am I alive?
Why this existence?
Why did you put me here?
Never will an answer come. She knows this truth yet still attempts the plea. A mixture of hate and have pity.
The tips of her fingers tap upon the wood up by her face, just within eyesight. Everything else on and of her remaining motionless. Phalange begins a swirling motion through the matted residue of tears and snot which exudes from her orifices.
The soft skin of her face lay mangled in the cracks and seams where the floor comes together. Features distorted and pinned without thought and without feeling from whence she fell.
“I am flesh and blood.”
She says out loud once more to the empty space, as though she needed convincing, that this obvious truth were some novel concept.
“I am flesh and blood.”
Curious now she speaks it. Is this perhaps some answer that it should come into her head now, here, or would it be rebellion?
Against existence?
Against an atmosphere that would force benign a dangerous passion both cruel and kind?
Against those who would perpetuate its suppression?
Against those who do not truly know the meaning of powerless, of being alone?
Against the Gods themselves who have made this so, who’ve allowed it to continue without seeming hope?
What can we expect from a human’s nature not allowed its full birth, when denied its true features?
Is the soul a renewable resource? Do we just keep rising like the phoenix from the ashes both subdued and uncompromising?
When not granted a win, when one has no goals, when all has been ripped from marrow and bone?
When this ever repressive atmosphere claws its way around her throat, choking anything that could be considered life from her lungs.
Perhaps it is a reminder that there is still life to give, to waste, to lose.
“I am flesh and blood.”
There is more conviction in her voice. For what does it matter where she is for she still is. When walking through life we will always be battered.
“I am flesh and blood.”
This fact is not what limits her but gives her power. She might be collapsed now, but will stand tomorrow for she is flesh and blood.
This is rebirth.
Glory Fiction 