In the darkest night yet, I don't see the crowd.
I hope and wish so tightly between my meeting palms and my forehead that they're there, because if I go now, no one will know why.
My stupid prayer ends and I almost open my eyes when a loud CRACK and BOOM startle me. In my panic, I blast my eyes wide open; she didn't kill me. I hear the pit pat pot of rain hitting my armor, and I feel every splinter of wind as it jabs my skin and I feel the sop under my sandals telling me I'm sinking. Oh my God where's my weapon, I- It's in my hand of course- where else. At a distance not comfortably far, there she stands, surely: Jealousy, in her whole transmutatively perfect glory. I don't know why I'm fighting her; I don't pick fights that'll kill me, I thought. My weapon's a stick, my armor's rope, and my will died before my memories began to sink. I'm already tired, and I'm heaving to breathe, and I won't make it back home tonight. She's fully plated and has a sword made of the perfect killing material. Before today, she was perfect, and today she's also perfect, and she'll never stop being better than me.
The war drums start, and I break down sobbing. I fall on my knees and cry and cry and tear my soul out in the mud. My vision's blurry and my nose runs and my shield of strands of wheat is on the ground and so is my stick. I hear the sopping steps of her boots and then she squats in front of me. She brushes my tears away, and she swipes my hair so she can see me. I see her perfect smile, and her perfect voice forgives me.
I break down again and I throw myself and hold her. I cry into her and she hugs my self and the mud doesn't seem so bad and I wail in-between my breaths. I blink, and I hear the CRACK and BOOM again and hear nothing. I fall and sop my body in the warm mud. I look up and around, and as the light fades, I see no crowd, and I see no Jealousy, and I tear at the mud to get back my soul.