Fallen Chrysalis – a short, almost flash fiction

Something typed on my phone while feeling bad last night.  Typing was a better option than ruminating on those feelings.  This was typed as a Facebook update although it doesn’t update anything.  I think it’s a bit corny but people liked it anyway.

 

Looking back, still unsafe in her fallen chrysalis, she wished she had known how to walk before barbed wire words and bear trap silences pinned her in frightened helplessness and Stockholm Syndrome dependence. She would plead for the traps and barbs to be removed, for her wounds to be bathed. But there was to be no cleansing. Just deep and deepest talon traps. She became sick. Sicker. Her cries ever more agonised until finally the hunter told her of previous trophies and left her for dead.

She lived. Chewed through chains and limbs before crawling from the field of battle. Looking up she saw the sun. Unchanged, a testimony to all that had ever been good. The final traps rusted beneath the flow of her tears and the singers sang strength to new legs, regrown through the washing of the writers’ word sea.

She stood. Pressed her face to the wind. And followed the daylight wherever it led.

There was surrounding joy. Yet she, not yet full birthed in wisdom, looked back wishing she had known how to walk, to run, to see the hunter was not innocent, to have been able to spread rational wings and fly away at the first cruelty. She looked back, could not help but blame the falcon for obeying its own nature and impaling its prey. Worse, she lacked a heart to forgive herself for being impaled, for turning away from each clear sign of what would follow with fated inevitability.

So she bathed, drowning in the tears that had been her release. Falling, dying, the chrysalis formed around her. And she waited for rebirth, as if thunder and the rainbow were one and the same.

She waited.

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