Reflection of a Stranger through a Sword

This story was inspired by Jorge Luis Borges.

I remember the day he was given a sword as an adolescent. Excitement lit his face up like fireworks. This man never possessed anything that was able to cut so deep into somebodies core, something so sharp it could pierce through somebodies soul; something with an immaculate precision. Humble as he could possibly be, he would grin mischievously as he mocked the gods and sliced through time.

Finally, all the years of silence came to an end and everybody recognized him, they weren’t looking through him anymore, and he loved it. He would tell me, “Man, can you believe it? I can’t believe I made fun of this stupid sword, but this stupid sword is more powerful than anything else in this world.” I never once questioned his ability, I never once disputed his courage, and I never once stopped believing in him. He was fearless with that sword; God wouldn’t be able to pry it from his hands with promises of forever, and The Devil’s temptations stood no chance. Many years it took him to develop his craft, swinging until he lost his mind or until his hands would bleed, because the feeling this sword gave him was unique.

We spoke countless times, and every time he would describe his sword with such admiration, I knew when he had his sword he had experienced absolute freedom. This man took pride in knowing no matter what obstacle presented itself, it would never be able to tame his sword, or prevent him from cutting his way through. His chin was up when he walked, he wasn’t hiding in his hooded sweatshirt, he walked with confidence he didn’t drag his feet, and most importantly he was smiling he didn’t have that blank expression on his face.

            The last day we spoke was the most painful. We were smiling, and everything was fine. Stars filled the sky. Worriless evening where the cricket’s symphony blended perfectly with the sound of the breeze when all of a sudden information broke his heart and his glorious sword dropped with anxiety; useless to the pain. I thought “pick it up,” but I was powerless. I watched him shatter, and I couldn’t do anything, but gasp for air like I was about to drown and barely made it back to the surface as I watched every piece of him fall apart in slow motion. I watched his desire escape merciless, and I knew we were in the loneliest moment we had ever known. I saw his dreams flash before his eyes before they abandoned him, and I shutdown. He separated himself from the world, pushed everybody he loved away and the sword had no meaning to him. The recognition that was so precious to him was forgotten. The freedom he adored he despised. His sword made his temper rise, and he wanted to blackout every memory of it,

 The time since we last spoke is not measurable in time; it has been years, yet to me it feels like mere minutes. It is impossible to acknowledge time when you are broken or lost, time is a sick joke.

 I often watch him from the outside looking in, and I whisper to him, “Remember me?” I always felt whispering was stronger than any other form of communicating. If you tell the one you’re in love with, “I love you baby,” it may contain some power, however, if you whisper in their ear, “I love you baby,” chills caravan down they’re spine forcing the hairs on their arm to salute, and the meaning in the words are truly felt. I whisper to him hoping he knows I am still here, I haven’t left. “I still believe.”

I smiled the other day. I couldn’t believe it; I almost thought I forgot how. I saw him with his sword, and he glanced at me. I heard he locked himself away in a cage for days, sometimes weeks at a time and every time he came out of the cage he looked weak physically, but when you looked into his eyes you could see relief. Rumor is he uses his sword to fight insanity. I don’t know…I never looked in his eyes since the last day we spoke. I heard he never looked into anyone’s eyes since then because he doesn’t want them to see how empty he was; he built a persona to prevent people from becoming close to him because those who are closest to him hurt him the most in the end.

Recently, I heard a rumor he is sharpening his sword more than ever. He is showing people what his sword can do, cutting into people he would have never thought cutting. I heard they think he is crazy, and he should put his sword down. I disagree, I think his sword is one of the main reasons he is here still, and one day his sword is going to help him change lives.

This man’s sword was never made of steel, but it was stronger than titanium; it was light yet heavy at the same time, his sword was sharpened by the countless influences in his life. His family knew his sword was special, and they knew one day when he finally left them for good, they would have his sword to remember him by.

His sword was poetry. He sharpened it so much; it could cut deep into people’s soul, and slice through time. When times were hard and he couldn’t face them he put his sword down and kept everything inside, but once he was ready to face his fears he picked his sword up and challenged everything he was too afraid to and he remembered what it is to be fearless. I am the stranger in the swords reflection. I write in the third person because I wish my pain belonged to someone else, but unfortunately it doesn’t, I write in third person because that is what writing is, its escaping, and the main reason I write in third person is because I died a long time ago and now I am just watching myself pretend to live with a sword.

You will never understand the sadness attached to the moment you see the reflection of a stranger through a sword.