The Fight

“I am not a slave.”

His eyes stayed steady, following my every move, his gun trained on the space between my eyes. I envisioned the feel of cold steel piercing my skin, running straight through and leaving a softball sized hole in the back of my head.

I was crippled by fear, not because I valued my own life, but because I knew the authority he held in his hands. I knew the name on the gun, and I knew that my wish was for him to hold it to his own temple. He’d woken up after many years of self-delusion. All of those injuries, all of the broken bones were my dream for him.

And he obeyed like a dog obeys his master.

But now? I’ve been locked in the cellar, starved to death, and made to face my own mortality. Mortality? It’s a funny thought to entertain, really, because I know that I am immortal until the day that justice comes swiftly and ends me forever.

All through my imprisonment, the man waving the gun in my direction thrived. He is not the man I used to know. He is not bound to me any more. My parasitic rule over his mind has been broken by the Gunsmith who gave him the key to my destruction.

He spoke again.

“I am no slave to you. My authority is given by the one who loved me enough to free me. 

And by this authority, you have no say here.

I’ve allowed you to become rooted in me too long.

But not anymore.” 

And like that, I was banished. It was love that ushered in my death.

It was conviction.

As I raised my eyes towards the heavens to threaten the maker of the gun,

My vision filled with red and my ears rang with the sound I hated most:

The sound of a man freed from his own extinction.

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. 

Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again

by a yoke of slavery.”

-Galatians 5:1


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