Once upon a time, in a distant land, there was a lone soldier. She fought an unending and ugly battle against unruly enemies, with the recklessness of one who believed there was no other to fight for her, nor another to care should she not be victorious.
The battle morphed into a game, an easier fate to accept than that of the great lonely burden of her truth reality. Russian Roulette. She grew wise to the different faces and forms of the enemies; she learned many tricks of the trade. Her calloused exterior allowed for no penetration into her inner world.
A sojourner of sorts, she pressed on; in the pursuit of what, she did not know. Her defiance of the enemies’ deathly schemes had led to the formation of a steely determination within her. She’d come through worse; she was no stranger to suffering; she was a survivor. Shards of hope from beyond the horizon would occasionally break through the sea of storm clouds, and she pressed on; in the pursuit of what, she did not know. Perhaps the hope shards of a better tomorrow. Perhaps the hope shards of a butterfly effect upon a better tomorrow.
The enemies, their cruel tricks; relentless. Her heart, steely determination; relentless.
The battle continued.