Invincible, Not Invisible

Defending and hitting; this was what I was doing on a humid Saturday afternoon in summer.

“Take that, you insolent monster. You dare to fight the army of the most ferocious queen, who has conquered enormous territories?”

I brought my sword down in a vast arc, slicing the demon in half. Yes, the soldier I pretended triumphantly thought. She had defeated the most powerful demon, who had been overwhelming the kingdom ever since she could remember. Believing the monster would utter honeyed words out of its mouth to sway her from her mission, but then finding it cut half, she found something she had not found in a long time. Peace.

Silence followed the raging battle; it was deafening. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears in an ear-splitting roar. Taking deep breaths, she tried to steady her heartbeat, all while hearing the victorious roar which belonged to the troops, who were now free of the dangerous monster. The just queen was yet again successful in protecting the kingdom and keeping away the soldier’s nightmares. Sweat dripped down the small of her back in rivulets and her face was wet with tears or perspiration, no one could not gauge which. 

I gradually returned to my physical surroundings… I was back in my shelter, my treehouse, where I was free to be whoever I wished. “Ah,” I whispered to myself, lest the pleasure of the soldier’s and my victory disappear, “why do I always leave such destruction behind?”

The treehouse was a mess. Things overflowed from the cardboard box in my haste to retrieve my mighty, indestructible sword (which was, in reality, a plastic sword, but I liked to exaggerate the worth of things). I had to defeat this demon immediately; I thought as an excuse. Be it my toys or my brother’s, I strewed them around the floor like haystacks, just because I wanted to feel the joy of throwing anything at the soldier’s demon. My boots, dusty from running to get to the treehouse, showed utmost disrespect to my flying carpet by lying on top of it. I imagined my mother giving me more chores if she saw this mess because she knew I disliked doing them. There was just no imagination in washing the dishes or vacuuming while breaking nothing. Exhaustion overcame me just by glancing around; one should not expect a nine-year-old girl to imagine raging battles in her head and then clean her real-life battlefield.

I always believed in confronting one’s demons, rather than calling for parents to do it for you. Where was the fun in crying to them about the demons under your bed, which were holding a party, keeping you up throughout the night? They would just give a noncommittal shrug while doing their work or place a night bulb to comfort you. Plus, one always felt unbeatable after no one other than you killed the demons. 

Oh no. Why do I stray away from my story? I closed my eyes and opened them; I was the young soldier again.

 She settled down in front of the mirror she kept for her reflections. It was slightly longer than half her body, and, mind you, she was petite for her age; all the generals and other soldiers towered over her like they were sky-scrapers with strong limbs. Be it her fellow male soldiers or the women who made the food for them during their stay in the camps, they teased her about how naïve she was because she was young. Every word whispered felt like someone was discussing her child-like features, though she was technically an eighteen-year-old woman. Every roaring laughter seemed to be about her. There was a constant frown on her face because of that, which made her look even more stupid. It was difficult to convince people to take her seriously; who would do that when she was a woman and looked like a child? Who would do that when rumours circulated the camp that she and two of the other female soldiers had bribed their way into the ranks when they took the tests? Feelings of despair and invisibility followed her in their wake. I completely sympathised with her; I knew what it felt like to be ridiculed.

The mirror, as I was saying, helped her to stay sane. Often, she imagined her dull brown hair to be red, or black - something exciting- or her mud-brown eyes to be blue. Something to convince others she was present, not invisible. But as I settled down today behind her, there was something extraordinary about her reflection.

Usually, I enter the treehouse during the evening, when there is still plenty of light to play and it is not uncomfortably warm. Often, I sit in front of the mirror. The light which entered through the sizable hole in a wall bathe half of my face in glory, while the other half shrouded in darkness. However, today I arrived after lunch, sitting in front of the mirror when the sun was high in the sky and its rays strong. Imagining that the girl in the mirror was the soldier, and that I sat behind her, invisible to her mortal eyes. The rays illuminated her entire face in gold and her usually dull eyes transformed into beauty no one ever imagined they could hold. The colours were mind-blowing, like honey drizzling and chestnuts basking under the sun. Specks of green and blue were visible here and there. Staring for eternity could not have done this exhibition justice.

Reflecting on this, I imagined that my soldier’s true self hid behind a wall of unbreakable glass. It was a curse by the monster. Breaking it freed her original self, the beauty and abilities standing stark for everyone to see, even those who ignored them. She may be a young, insecure woman, who believed that others talked behind her back or tried to undermine who she was, hurting her more than a knife piercing through her body. But now she was free: it was her right to make herself known to others. It was her right to abandon caring what others thought. She hid for so long that emerging now as her true self stirred her soul to take action. No power in the universe could stop her now. People would revere her now after defeating the monster. She formed her mantra at the spot: I am invincible, not invisible.

That is it for today, I thought. I had intended to return to my house before evening, but since I was creating this story inside my head and writing it down in my journal, it was nearly night time. I did not want to go. My home limited my imagination. My brother joked about my fantasy world, saying it was useless since it could not help with life. I could not convince him it helped by a long shot. It always helped me to ward off my demons, who troubled me in actual life. I could kill them, even if it was in the form of imagination. And being the defiant girl I was, who followed the optimistic thinking of the soldier, I would rather give up my life than stop inventing stories or changing who I was because of what others said.