Figments of Delusion

The Reality of Truth

           The first thing I noticed when she walked in were the bruises. Black and blue, fading to purple and tinged with green at the edges. I felt my heart surge and the beast that I had so painstakingly hidden awoke. "Who?"

           "Don't worry. I'm fine," her soothing voice does nothing to douse the fire raging in my chest.

          "Who?" I ask, my voice a wall of steel. I stare her down and when she looks up at me, I feel my heart break. Her beautiful blue eyes, blended with green and grey, glisten with unshed tears.
"You're too young to deal with this," I whisper under my breath.

          "You were worse, I know," she retorts, holding her head high. "Mom told me the last time I saw her."

          "Mother never once understood me. Don't you listen to a word she says. That woman didn't even know I existed when I was your age," I feel the old wound inflicted on my past sear with pain.

          "She claims to know you very well. She told me stuff about you, bad stuff," as she says it, she looks down at the floor.

          "That's beside the point," I feel the old knot forming in my throat and I can feel myself tense. "Who," I ask firmly as I lift her chin, so she is forced to meet my eyes.

          "It doesn't matter. It won't happen again," she says, a smile tugging at her split, bloodied lip.

          "Teachers?", with that one word I leave the real question unsaid but implied.

          "None," the semi smile lifts the right side of her mouth. "Just another student, but he won't tell. The other girls might through, they probably will."

          "Who," I repeat and this time she answers.

          "Maya." She holds her head high and looks me in my eyes.

          "That bitch," I can feel the spite corroding my heart. "She has the gall to constantly ask you for help and crap, then she goes and does this."

          "It's done and the problem is solved, like I said, it won't happen again."

          "What was the problem," I ask, feeling doubt creep into my heart.

          "She was talking about me behind my back, spreading rumours, nasty stuff. Telling everyone that I cheated on tests and was addicted to painkillers, things like that. I went to talk to her; one on one. I asked her why and what she hoped to gain with all her lies. Then she insulted and slapped me," my beautiful baby sister holds her head high and stands tall, daring me with her body to challenge her choice. "So, I punched her. And she was pissed, but too bad, so sad. She's a slap kind of girl, and I'm a punch kind of girl."

          "Good for you," I smile slightly at her sense of justice and righteousness. "You had every right to defend yourself."

          "Things got messy when her two friends showed up," my precious girls face darkens, and she glowers at the wall.

          "They didn't", I exclaim. I can feel my face heat with anger. "Three against one is beyond ridiculous."

          "Trust me I know," she rolls her eyes and continues. "I held my own, they all are going to have just as many bruises as I have."

          "Be proud of defending yourself but know the difference between righteous pride and gloating over victory. It was after all, a fight." Her blood thirstiness is a constant reminder of what I lost, what I miss. She is a fighter, a warrior at heart. What I wouldn't give to change that, to make her gentler, if only so she doesn't meet the fate I know is coming.