Price of a Rapier Wit

I don’t know how or when it started, but when we weren’t physically coming to blows, my sisters and I were always at least sparring. Dueling is more like it, because the tips of our tongues were tempered steel from age eight on, and we fought for blood. It was what it was, and we all survived in our way.

I emerged a warrior, and it has cost me. It has taken me years to realize how sharp and bright my rapier can be, and how deep its snicker snack can go. I don’t think I try to hurt people. Well, maybe I do. I don’t try to make them hate me is more like it. I mean, I do care about whether people have been hurt by me and hate me. But I love to duel. I love to clash swords, but I always assume that I will be met. That’s not true. I hate being met. I love…flesh wounds. Quick little stings that scratch and then retract, just enough to know who’s in charge here, mister, or at least that I am fully present and not intimidated by you, mister. I love to do this. It makes me feel huge and indomitable. I can feel the blade enter, and when I do it just right, it feels very, very good.

Of course, it’s difficult to judge how far a blade will go. And sometimes it goes much too far. I feel it go in, and if the flesh is too yielding or my force is too strong, it just keeps sinking in deeper and deeper, and all I can do it watch while the damage is irreperabley done. I have my kill, standing wide-eyed in front of me, blinking, not yet aware that it is dead. That we are dead. Or a part of us. A kill is a lonely triumph.