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The Loved Ones (And So I Fight)

Do Not Go Gentle

By Elizabeth GreyPublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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I used to think I am meaner than my demons.

But I have seen their cruel smiles and listened to their taunting laughter. I have looked into the abyss, and I know that I am not as mean as I pray I am.

They snarl and gnash their teeth and beat their chests and unsheathe their claws. They are looking for a fight, but I am too tired to give them one. They know it. They mock me gleefully, reveling in a victory that’s as good as won. Sniggering sinisterly, they prowl at the edge of my vision only to slither out of sight when I raise my head to face them. I fall first to my knees, then to the ground. I let my eyes close. I wear defeat like a burial shroud, its inky blackness draped over my anguished form. The demons’ raucous, shrill laughter assaults me, and I cover my ears to block out the noise as a child covers their ears when they hear their parents arguing. Even the ground cowers beneath their feet as they stalk through the shadows and circle their prey, testing me to see how close I’ll let them get. I am too tired to go on fighting them anymore, and if they attack now, I will let them win. I am tired of fighting battles in a war I do not believe I can win.

But my heart aches when I think of The Loved Ones.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I had said, collapsing in their arms, chest heaving with ragged breathing. “I’m sorry.” My voice was no more than a whisper—pathetic, defeated, resigned.

“Do not go gentle,” they had whispered fervently, tying bandages around the wounds on my arms and legs, rapidly trying to patch me up and prepare me for the next battle. “Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

But that was centuries ago. Now my hands are weak, my bones are weary, and my heart carries the weight of that ocean of sorrow swirling and broiling beneath my skin. I am tired. I cannot go to war anymore.

But then I see their faces. I remember the way they would look at me with baleful eyes, sorrowful expressions, and tear-streaked cheeks. I remember the way they would squint their eyes shut and let their head fall when I told them of the battle I’d fought the night before. I remember the way they would beg me to keep fighting, their voice small and quiet, tremulous and cracked. I remember the way they would fight so hard to make me believe that I am loved, that I matter, that I have a purpose. I remember the roaring laughter, the childlike giggling, the time spent reading and discussing, the unconditional love and acceptance. My heart squeezes painfully at the thought of surrendering to my demons and never seeing The Loved Ones again.

“Do not go gentle,” I whisper, reminding myself of their last words to me. I recall their faces. I recall their voices. I recall their shaking hands and watery eyes. I recall their love for me. A flicker of strength returns to my bones. I lift my head. “Do not go gentle,” I hear, as if they have whispered it in my ear. I get to my feet. Do not go gentle. I see their encouraging smiles; I hear their pride-colored voices; I feel their arms wrapped securely around my shoulders, keeping me grounded and preventing me from slipping away into oblivion.

I pick up my weathered shield, grip my sword tightly, and advance toward the edge of the shadows where I know the demons are waiting for me. “Do not go gentle,” I mutter, clinging onto the words, rolling them around in my mouth, letting their taste strengthen and revitalize me. Each step releases an outpouring of memories that seize my heart and strengthen my resolve. I am overwhelmed by images flooding back to me: images of the ink-stained hands, the perfectly-straight bowties, the slightly-askew glasses, the converse-clad feet, the teddy-bear eyes. Every recalled detail is gasoline dousing the fire that is beginning to rage in my heart.

I approach the edge of the shadows where the demons stand nonchalantly, absentmindedly picking my flesh out from between their claws. I watch them size me up, lick their lips, flex their claws. I lift my chin defiantly. Do not go gentle. My heart is rioting, forcing back the exhaustion and resignation with bruised and shaky hands. I raise my shield, brandish my sword, and drop into a comfortable stance. Do not go gentle. I smile. The demons charge.

And though my limbs are weak and my heart is tired, I spring forward as if I am fighting this battle for the first time. A raw and wild war cry forces its way over my tongue and between my teeth, tearing free from my throat and resounding in my ears. “Do not go gentle,” I hear again, and I know The Loved Ones are right there with me.

I love them. And so I fight.

coping
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About the Creator

Elizabeth Grey

just another speck of dust in the vast cosmos trying to make her life mean something

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