The way I see it, some people are born knowing. They breathe their first breath with an understanding that is innate only to their kind. And she was one of these people. A breed only as rare as variety. She filled three quarters of the average doorway and spent most of her time waiting. The cross her kind bares for colliding with this universe.
Nonetheless, it was another evening and she was waiting again, waiting for her fumbling kinfolk to understand that she no longer needs the fighting.
Her shoulder hurt from colliding with his fist, but it was a pain she’d learnt to ignore. Or at very least, learnt to live with. More pressing was the pain she felt in her chest and mind. This too was a pain she knew, but in moments like these where she’d abandoned her nature to fight the ‘liquid courage’ that threatened to kill her brother, she thought the pain to be unbearable. Her understanding of the world became the cage that imprisoned her. If her old soul and unfitting wisdom had ever done anything for her, it was to make her bleed, this she thought as she sat in the dark alone. “The wrong person has died. If the heavens have never made a mistake than the mistake was in not understanding what a mistake is,” she whispered to herself, knowing that no one would hear even if she screamed. This world has always been a lonely place for her. A girl like her had to fight everything, even the air she breathed burnt her lungs. On the couch that evening, she knew the sun would rise for the next day and she would have another bruise she’d have to lie about, forget about and someday come to forgive.