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Short Story 20

The Fight of the Unseen

‘I don’t think he will win his game.’ Rain pattered down and these words reverberate, like a drop in a puddle it fans out. His face is quite pale, limbs numbed and cold. There was no one around to stare now. Nothing to interest anyone. He had risked life and limb and had come to this.

The water hitting him was warm, it was a summer rain. The sun had only set a quarter of an hour ago, the sky above was still gray and starless. The world easily forgot the likes of him when the action was over and there was nothing to gain in watching.

What did it matter. They didn’t feel his impact until moments like this. They didn’t care until his life was threatened, and so long as he survived, no matter the condition people were willing to go back to life as normal. A smile so bitter. What was life as normal?

He sat up, body aching. There was blood coming from a cut somewhere over his eyes, it wept quickly across his vision the rain blending with it increasing the force of the stream. A sigh. Lungs on fire, the heart still remembering the rush of the fight to live.

There were some who knew his brother, the one that would never die, but he knew that eventually his time would come, the game would end. He would exist as nothing more than a faded memory, something people told to their children. Something long forgotten and missed, something difficult, if not impossible, to return once worn away.

He would heal. For now, he would recover. Never would he be the same again, for there would be no true doctor to cure him. No one to properly reset his bones. His enemies still breathed fresh air. They schemed and plotted. They whispered their plans between each other. Soon they would catch him again. Soon they would bind him within the rules of their game and weigh his feet down for fairness’s sake.

He rocked as he regained his footing. The agony in his body matched by what was present in his limbs. It was this that was a reminder, the pain. Those in power, they thrust their blows so easily and often they laughed and sneered behind their masks of fortitude and unencumbered façades, pretending all the while that what they did was for his benefit. The larger masses hardly saw the evils perpetrated against him or the things done to end him. Secrets written in tombs the likes of which mortal men labor over and still do not understand.

To them this was all just a game. A game they played hoping that one day he would lose. That one day they would finally be able to shut the door of decency and put him at last to rest somewhere far beneath their feet.

A smile as bitter as the bile that had filmed his mouth. They could kill him, but his brother would still live. Let them do as they will, come what may he would play his part till the end, and in that there would always be someone to prop him up even when it seemed that all had gone and given in. That was the beauty of this fight. The power behind his victory, for just to be able to rise again, he had won against them. To remain even just a memory, that too was triumph, for as long as there was want to remember, there would be those who would never forget.


Thank you so much for reading everyone!!

Prompt Sentence: I don’t think he will win his game.

Word Count: 594

©DecemberKnight 2022

Special thanks to Ana Benet from Pexels for the use of the image!

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