11

I am tired, she thought, of this blood-soaked world. 

The birds chirped overhead, and the grass tickled her ear, and all she could think was: I am equal parts rage and helplessness, and I am tired. 

Would that she could destroy them all, with a snap of her fingers. If she could wave her hand and have every single one of them fade into dust, would that make her feel better? Every war-hungry slaughterer, reduced to rubble like the streets they'd bombed. Would that give her justice? 

 These feelings scared her. She was not one for hate. Hostility did not come easily to her, so foreign and strange was its figure in her mind.

And yet, here she was, and there it was.

The clouds moved slowly through the bright blue sky, soft cotton up above. 

I can do nothing, she chastised herself. I can do nothing with these two hands, with this small voice, with this fragile frame. I have neither the strength nor the power - nor even the wealth. What can I do?

Nothing.

She could do nothing.

So instead she lay there, listening to the birds singing above, and let the emotions rip through her.

📝

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