Intrapersonal battle

What now is this?

A mind full of wit and intellect-

Confused and convoluted,

With stripes of mud highlighting the face.


What battles were faced in cold and dark corners,

Hidden and aiming not to be found,

Beneath the gyri and sulci, 

And all of the thoughts from within?


How hard is it to watch 

Your own self facing what once was,

What can be known,

And entities that could have been found?


No shield has been brought,

And definitely no weapon,

Just this mere rational mind,

Which have been strangling me. 


What will I conquer 

From this useless battle which I had initiated 

Way before I knew all of its consequences, 

In addition to all of the loses? 





The White Lady

Staring out her bedside window, Siara felt like those people, that were passing by the cobbled roads were too busy to understand that the world that surrounded them was in shatters. Women, men, children, all lost in their hidden thoughts when right underneath their feet were remnants of the buildings, broken glass and rubble.

The civil war had been long over but the impact remained. She could almost hear the bombings fall from the sky one by one, tearing everything apart. Siara felt that her eyes could not hold the tears any longer and they dropped slowly on her cheeks. This was her reality: all ruptured and torn down.

Nothing could explain why she always found herself wandering in the woods, which were situated at the outskirts of her ghost town. Siara was fond of nature and only here she found peace. The woods had a history too, they were once shelters in which all the villagers hid, but nothing was left.

The peasants of the village all looked at Siara in a strange way whenever she passed by them. This was another question that was left hanging in her mind. She had too much on her mind, and she felt that she could not bare these questions; but they kept haunting her night and day.

Siara was a beautiful, radiant, young woman. She wore her blonde hair till her shoulder, with small curls at the bottom. She was flawless, and the exquisite features on her face made her look more daring. Every movement she made was as if she was reeled into a musical symphony. Everything she did, followed her hand.

The young lady appeared to be almost like an angel with her white plain dress that fell upon her curves. She was searching for something that was inconspicuous to her knowledge. This left her continuously alone; deeply rooted in solitude, like a rotting pine tree.

The wind wailed in her ears and because of it, her hair was ruffling about from the frame of her face. The mournful sorrow that it had sent, shivered down her spine, as though it pitied her and wanted her to blow the pain off her shoulders.

The bright, full moon above, dropped its shadows onto the ground, hindering her every move. The only sounds she heard were the rustling leaves, and the beating of her heart. Did the past make this lady immune to emotions? Maybe it is for this reason that no one wanted to befriend her.

The white lady touched and felt the texture of the oldest tree trunk that was in the woods. It was the one that knew the most about the past which the village and the woods had shared. Siara knew that she could not be saved. She fell deeply into something that was indefinable, and now that nothingness grew inside her. It darkened her soul, but it had become a part of who she was. She was not sure if she was considered a human. She could not feel. She could not escape the dark woods no matter how much she wanted to.

The weights of her troubles were all upon her; nevertheless she could not find a way to get rid of them anymore. She just wanted to break free from it all. Siara could not pretend that she was safe; she could not smile and feel that she was going to make it. Everything around her, ignited a fire, and the powerlessness kept on taunting her.

Behind the oldest tree were a thousand of graves of innocent men women, and some children. All had died in the war. They were all set out in ascending order, according to their family’s last name. She went for the ones with the letter F; ‘Edward Finlay was a brave, youthful man who kept on fighting in the war till he eventually collapsed due to his illness. He will never be forgotten especially by his wife Lilly, and his young daughter Siara.’

She had seen so many people dying, every one of them had been battling for the sake of their family. Her father had been one of them. Even though he had not been physically fit, he kept on pushing himself until he saw the enemies back down. Eventually the disease had caught up with him and with all the battle wounds, it was impossible for him to survive. Edward had died a hero.

From that day on, things had never been the same for Siara and her family. She had to hold on to the lullaby that Lilly and Edward used to sing to her, so that she sleeps. Sometimes it was what motivated her to wake her up every morning. Now standing there in front of the tomb, all these memories slapped her upon her face, and she fell to the ground crying.

She knew that with her father gone, someone would have to take his place in the committee which protected the village. She had been trained by the very best and she had become a fighter. She had learned how to slaughter people slowly and quietly, and she had become good at it. And when a few years later, the war broke out again she had been in the front line amongst the other soldiers. One of the few women who had been brave enough to risk their lives and save others. This however had changed her, as she had become a cruel woman who just killed people in the most vicious, unimaginable ways. She had done the unthinkable.

The white lady was not so pure; she was guilty, and this was beating her and screaming in her ears, making her go insane. That was how she started to search for her innocence. Of course it was impossible, as it had burned down amongst all the trees in the woods. Could this have been the reason why the villagers disliked her? Had she become immune to it all?

Her breath quivered from all the sobbing. Nothing could be changed from the way it had been set out for her. A sound brought her senses back together. One of the villagers must have followed her, and from what she could perceive, the person brought a gun as she heard it clack after being reloaded. Siara’s instincts had become refined, which was why at that moment she took cover behind the middle tree and waited for this person to come into the light.

The man was careful and wary of every little detail around him, yet she was more experienced than him. Within a heartbeat, she got out her only weapon. A thin wire which was held with two handles at the end. It was the main weapon of torture used in Spain: a garrote. She was calculating each of the person’s moves, carefully, so that she executes at the perfect time.

The rays of the gorgeous sun were peaking from behind the satin black sky, which made things easier for her as she could start seeing the person’s shadow; he was a man. He could not hide anymore, she was onto him and wherever he walked, she was there, ready to pounce. Her patience was unlimited, and as she saw the man getting distracted, she faced him and massacred him.

Blood was splattered all over her hands and white dress. Her world has become a disgrace. This was the weight that she will have to keep on carrying with her all her life. The weight of the death of people she has killed over the years. The little innocent Siara, who had been crying to get her father back had turned into a monster.

It was too late for Siara, she was disintegrating. The pine tree has now withered, and birds were pecking at it. The recollections of all the good times were fading, all that was left were the mournful stars that were watching the white lady crumble into the damned darkness.