Taking five minutes with the #FiveMinuteFriday gang to write unedited on a theme sent out by Lisa-Jo Baker. This week its Hero.
Today, I think of a weakened, broken wreck of a man. He’s pinned down, crushed, and doesn’t fight back. He’s helpless – seems so. He’s silent. He doesn’t even fight with words. I’m watching his strength drain, pour like water and blood from his veins, an extravagant torrent. The life in that liquid falls wastefully to the ground. His face is disgusting to see – a mashed, blackened, swollen mess. I can’t even let my eyes linger long. I don’t see the whites of his eyes. In fact, they’re not white any more. I see a bloodied, red eye – a glimpse through sweat and mud and muck and puffy lids – it looks like it’s cried a million tears, and it doesn’t look away. It sees me. It follows me.
There’s no accusation in that look, nor fear. There’s no backing down.
He might be crushed, but he didn’t run away. He didn’t manoeuvre, he didn’t compromise. He stood, like a deer in the roadway watching the lights of an oncoming truck, smacked headlong into a force that was to pulverise him. An innocent sacrifice.
Such broken, given strength. And it was for me.