Short Story

The Traveller

When I met her she was bruised.

And her eyes gave it away, that it wasn’t just physically. I could tell she had gone the distance, not only with her feet, but also with her heart.

I looked through the mirrors of her soul. They reflected back to me a unique story, a history that had led her to this very present moment we had come to share together.

Her journey was not absent of brokenness. She did not try to hide it. She saw nothing to be gained in burying it and wore no mask of fakery. She’d come too far for that. But brokenness that made her story was certainly not her end.

That she wouldn’t let.

There were times when she took a left when she should have taken a right, choosing the wide road over the narrow. That’s when she got her bruises. Chains formed and pressed tightly around her heart.

I was in no position to judge. She was looking for love. She needed it.

We all do.

She searched for it down roads she would never find it, love in its purest form. Instead she found its look alike and its mimic. Full of trickery and flattery, nowhere close to pure.

She had known broken dreams but found the courage to dream again. Experienced a broken heart but found the healing to find it whole again.

She had seen open hearts, others that were closed. She had seen people force their way to the front, others hide behind. Some who thought they always knew better, others who didn’t believe enough.

On the road she had met people who had admiration for her when she had shared her struggles. Why? Because they knew they had them too.

Others used her mistakes as weapons.

She had laughed and cried, all on the same day. She had been stuck in a rut yet had experiences that made her imagination soar. She had spoken out yet had felt the pressure to remain silent. She had given her best and prayed it would be enough.

Maybe that’s why she had come so far.

The struggle she had gone through had given her strength for her tomorrow. She had hope that brokenness was not her end and with that came her peace.

She looked over her shoulder at the journey she had come on, the road she had walked had been lined with endless grace. A grace that held her through the pain. A grace she knew she did not deserve.

Her eyes fell back on mine and she started to smile.

Not at me but at her past, not only with her mouth but her eyes. They opened wide, filled with light, reflecting back what was deep inside. That moment I saw through the window of her soul, the bruises of her heart overcome by the light. Her saviour had broken her chains.

All that had passed could be seen in her rear-view mirror, in the distance shrouded in grey. She glances briefly at the dull reflection then looks up only to shield her eyes from the glare that was set before her.

The lightness she feels is because she throws off her dead weight that tries to drag her down, that tells her she can’t keep going anymore. She knew what is was to let go and move beyond what had become familiar.

And she looks alive.

But her flesh that had taken her far and carried her miles would someday fail her and take her no further. Yet still she would travel. No longer living in a dystopia world, she’ll walk in to utopia.

For this she knew to be true, her soul would endure, go the distance until it found itself home through eternity’s doors.

For now, she walks on, from one place to the next. She is still on schedule, grace accounts for all the time brokenness caused her to lose. Transforming along the way, through all the love and all the pain. She has a traveller spirit you see.

Restless.

It is who she was made to be. Just like me.

I met her in the mirror.

 

 

 

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