Valor [Eve] pt. 1

It starts with the call of a bird.

I’m walking to school when I hear the noise,

ear-splitting, heart-clenching.

I gaze into the clouds and all I see is a wild wingspan, the Word I set free

into the unknown,

coming back to me now.

”Valor,” I whisper, not quite realizing I’ve held a name for the bird in my heart somewhere. The word represents the Word, my omen of death, and if he’s going to linger in my life like this, I might as well give him that.

He swoops from the clouds, too quick for me to predict his falling arc.

He is not graceful; he is wild.

I don’t know why I don’t cringe away from him. I stand resolute, staring up into the sky, shielding my eyes from the glare of the morning sun.

I think--

we might collide.

Ooof.

The air is knocked out of my lungs as the bird tumbles into me, talons tangling in the strands of my hair as we collapse to the earth. I’m not screaming; I don’t have the air to expel. My hands fly to my face to cover my eyes, and for a brief moment I worry I might have another wound to join the scar on my cheek.

I quickly realize that it’s not my face I should worry about.

The bird’s talons won’t let loose from my hair.

Tangles and talons intertwine, and the Word cries in distress. We squirm in the dirt, sprawled and panicking, until the energy departs from both of us. .There’s a stillness, and then the heavy breath of giving up. I can feel the bird’s talons pressing into my skull, but we’re paused, almost as if in wait for something.

Long moments pass before either of us move. Slowly, gently, I reach for my hair and unweave us.

”There,” I say, and the Word is set free again.

This time, it doesn’t fly away. It drifts above, stubborn as it sticks by my side, drifting in the sky above.

I walk to school like that,

.ragged, but not alone.

----------------------------------------

That night, I consider asking Mom if she’ll cut my hair.

Then I consider asking Dad.

Then Raxar.

A dozen worries settle in my brain and take dangerous hold. Among them:

What if Mom scolds me?

What if Dad thinks something’s wrong?

What if Raxar laughs at the idea?

.and worse.

That’s why I take out the scissors, lock the bathroom door, and try my best to ignore the scar on my cheek when I look in the mirror. I focus on the hair, on the tangles that have settled in with time and apathy. My face is an ugly path of scars and memories, and something doesn’t feel right when I look at the roundness of my cheeks and the curve of my jaw.

I try to push these emotions away because I don’t understand what they mean.

I don’t like being afraid. This vulnerability stabs at my heart like a knife, but I ignore the way it cuts through my consciousness. Now isn’t the time for anxiety. Now is the time for the first--

Snip.

Once the first part is gone, the rest tumbles along without trouble. I realize partway through the process that there’s no way any of this will look neat, but that’s okay. I like that it’s messy. I like the way my hair fluffs in weird places, or doesn’t sit right. With each cut, my heart grows lighter and more free, and by the time I’m done I think I might fly right along with Valor.

I emerge from the bathroom with a smile, leaving behind a slew of hair strewn across the floor in my wake. It’s cropped close to my head now, and for some reason I don’t feel the need to hide from Mom or Dad or Raxar. I stroll into the kitchen with a smile on my face, feeling taller.

More correct, less afraid.

I feel like I’ve stepped into myself.

And with the first step done--

I feel like flying into the unknown, too.

Your grace is wasted in your face
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck