Perspective: The Fragment
Silence pressed against me after their departure, heavier than the blows had been. The alley did not breathe with me. Its stones were indifferent. Its shadows had no pity. Only the ache in my ribs reminded me that I was still part of it.
I stayed on the ground, curled slightly as if the posture might protect me. It did not. Pain seeped through the angles of my body, insistently alive. My hand trembled as I touched the bandage, now darkening with new stains. Blood again. Known. But this time, not a word recalled in clarity — it was warm, sticky, mine.
My chest heaved, each breath shallow. The air scraped my throat. I thought of standing, but the thought seemed too large for the body I carried. My knees bent but would not lift me. I sank back, and the stone took me again.
Weakness. The word rose unbidden. A concept I had always understood from afar, but never felt living inside me. Now it pressed into my bones, undeniable.
I turned my face upward. The sky was a narrow cut between roofs. Smoke drifted across it, dimming what little light belonged to the stars. Once, I would have walked among them. Now they felt as far from me as I was from what I had been.
Time passed without measure. A rat scurried along the wall, its claws clicking softly, more sure of its path than I was of mine. Somewhere distant, a door slammed. A man cursed. Life moved on around me, unbothered.
Something stirred within — not strength, but refusal. I remembered the fountain, the children's laughter that had spilled brighter than the water. I remembered the stranger who bound my hand without asking what I was. Those moments clung to me now, fragile threads against the dark.
I pressed palms against the stones again. They felt rough, cold, unyielding. Pain flared sharp as I pushed, my ribs resisting with every breath. I rose a fraction, then fell back. Stone greeted me harshly.
I lay still, air rushing fast, chest hammering. Shame flickered—another word, heavy, uncertain. Was this what it meant? To be brought low, to fail even at standing?
I did not know, but I tried again.
This time, my elbows locked, arms stiff despite trembling. My knees quivered, threatening to collapse beneath me, but I forced them straight. My body swayed, a tower built too narrow, yet upright all the same. I leaned on the wall, my shoulder pressed into the brick until it scraped, but I remained.
I breathed. Not evenly, not without pain, but enough.
One step. The weight of it dragged through my whole body, but the ground shifted behind me. Another step. The ache spread deeper, but still I moved. The wall guided me, a silent companion, cold and constant.
The alley stretched ahead, unwelcoming, yet open. Each step said the same thing: you are weak, but not ended.
Weakness did not vanish with motion; it grew heavier, each bruise pulsing, each breath burning. But for the first time, I did not see it only as a burden. It was the shape of my path, the proof that I remained.
I walked on, limping, bent, uncertain. Not as god. Not as king. Not even as a man. Simply as one who refused to stay fallen.