Freed

My enemy delights in my demise. He takes great joy in my ruin. I can see it in his cold eyes – the glint of triumph – his mocking laughter echoing in my ears. I lie broken at his feet silently pleading for death to claim my soul as an armored foot grinds my head deeper into the dirt. I once had dignity. Once, I clawed at his chains that bind my wrists. I now surrender. Deep down, I embrace them. It is far easier to wear the shackles than simply will them to break–to beg or fight for a freedom that will never be mine. Accepting the shackles is easier than simply willing them to break. Emptiness, at the very least, will never betray you. Hope is the traitor. Hope paints vividly beautiful dreams with a cursed brush, offering promises like mirages in the desert – glimmering with life, only to vanish when you reach for them.

Why is it always so hard? Why is it that, just when I feel I have made it past my darkest hour, when the light finally starts to pierce the horizon, the night returns – relentless, terrorizing, and mocking? Will You not call for a ceasefire? Would You not raise my white flag, just this once? Are You not my advocate? My defender? My… friend? 

Everything in my being screams to quit. I am worn thin, my tattered edges fraying. The torment never relents – it only evolves, finding new ways to break me. 

What is it, exactly, that terrorizes my soul? 

Could it be… my old companions?

Anger. Shame. Bitterness. We were so close once… They were sweet to me when I was young. They wrapped themselves around me like armor and built the most resilient fortress around my heart. They protected me – promised safety from the chaos. 

But now, they turn on me. 

Have they betrayed me? Have they carved open the fortress they built only to watch me bleed? I once trusted them entirely. I used to think they had the purest of intentions to lead me into a peaceful, painless life. It was easy to believe they had my best in mind. Now, however, I feel them circling like vultures, hungrily awaiting my last breath. Though I used to find camaraderie within their embrace – a constant among the inconsistency – I fear it has become my ultimate captivity. The caress that once felt safe now tightens into a chokehold.

They have bound me in chains of their own making, and I am their prisoner – trapped forever in the cold, silent chambers of a death I never wanted.

How long have I been here?

I cannot seem to recall a time when Anger, Shame, and Bitterness did not kept me secluded from the outside world, shadowing my every step – silent jailers who barricaded my heart away and shut the world out. They have kept me hidden in this cold place, cut off from warmth, from connection. I struggle to remember when Joy last sat with me, or Peace whispered in my ear. Their absence has stretched so long, it feels as though they may have never existed in the first place – figments of my utterly hopeless imagination.

The shackles were not initially my fault… No one could blame the unsuspecting little girl for befriending the wolf in sheep’s clothing. She was innocent, charged with nothing but falling prey to the sweetness of a beautiful poison apple. She is blameless. 

The woman she became?

She is not so innocent.

She knows the wolf now, no longer fooled by his disguise. She’s seen his fangs, felt them piercing her skin. She has watched him slowly and wholly devour her in silence. And yet, still – still – she chooses to remain in his company. Deceived no longer, but complacent. Willingly bound. She bears her chains like a familiar coat, cold and sharp against her skin, but comforting. She knows the pain, and in some twisted way, she has learned to need it.

I am no longer a child. 

The wolf is no sheep. 

I cannot pretend anymore.

I have to get out of here. 

Yes, pain is a product of the imperfections of life, inevitable and unavoidable, but this––this is something else. This is the rotting of my soul from the inside out. Surely, this cannot be all there is. 

There must be something more.

I close my eyes and a picture blooms in my mind – soft, alive.

I see her… The girl I once was a long time ago. She skips barefoot along the shoreline, laughing, blonde tresses billowing behind her in the wind. The waves crash around her, cold and wild against her skin, but she remains unafraid, tethered only to freedom. Her tiny hand clings loosely to the hand of a man walking beside her. He looks down at her with eyes full of infinite tenderness – eyes that see, truly see.

“I see you,” He whispers, His voice a quiet melody, calm and certain. “You were made for so much more than this.”

In his gaze, I catch a reflection. But it is not the carefree little girl anymore.

It’s me.

Me as I am now – bruised, broken, dirt-streaked and weary. 

The prisoner.

And yet, His face does not change. Not an ounce of love drains from His eyes. Not even a flicker of disappointment.

He still sees me.

My eyes fly open.

A gasp escapes my lips as heat rushes through my arms. A thunderous crash resounds around me, shattering the silence. I look down and–

The shackles are gone. Discarded on the floor. They lie in pieces at my feet, their weight no longer mine to carry. The door to my cell swings open with a groan like thunder splitting the sky. The guards, my old companions – Anger, Shame, Bitterness – lie motionless on the ground, powerless and stripped of all authority.

His words echo in my mind, louder then the noise around me, clearer than ever: “You were made for so much more than this.”

For the first time in years, I move. One step. Then another.

Out of the shadows. Out of the cell. Out of the lies that bound me.

Into freedom.