Armor

This flash fiction piece was written as a story companion to the day 14 drawing prompt Armor from the 2020 Inktober prompt list. Click here to see the drawing.

His love fit me like armor.

All my life I felt exposed to the world around me, like a hairless cat, reddened and peeling in the sun with no barrier between it and my vulnerable, unprotected skin. I used to wonder if everyone felt that way, incessantly assailed, constantly ducking down, guarding themselves as if an emotional blow could come at any moment.

The further along I got, the more I realized that, no, not everyone feels that way. At least, it certainly doesn't seem like it. Other people stand up and walk through lives with their heads up and eyes open, smiles on their faces, expecting to meet happy moments at each place they go and with each person they meet.

It’s something I became envious of, and ashamed to be. Why should I begrudge other people their unaffected natures? Even so, it’s not something I can help. I try not to hold it against them, those around me who don’t seem to be anticipating blows around every corner, but it’s hard.

But then, one day, a man fell in love with me. Another one. And doesn't that sound like the most arrogant way to explain it? Whether it is or not, it’s simply the truth. He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last, but in my estimation, he was certainly the best. And it’s not because he was brilliant, although he was, and it’s not because he was beautiful, although he was, and it’s not because he was ambitious and protective and kind, although he was all those things and more. It was because of something else entirely, some unnameable magic he carried inside of him, this ability to suit me with an invisible layer of protection wherever I went, whatever I did, simply because he loved me.

What kind of a man can do that? More of a myth, than a man. More of a sorcerer.

We used to take walks under the sun, our laughter ringing out loudly through the park and our shoulders barely brushing. He didn’t even have to touch me to make me feel as though his arms enveloped me completely. People would walk past us and I would stare them straight in the face and smile. That’s the person I was when he was by my side, not just fearless of what could happen, but excited to meet it and far more likely to expect it would be good, rather than bad.

He wasn’t without flaws, of course — what sorcerer is? But neither am I, and sometimes it seemed like we fought more than we didn’t. Like most things, we were very, very good at it. The blowouts we had were terrible, needling at each other’s deepest secrets and insecurities, until one or both of us would be convinced it was over and we’d never want to see each other again. The biggest problem with being good at nearly everything you put your hand to is you can become uncannily talented at hurting people—especially those you love and know the best.

Despite our tempers, it never took long before we were both pining for each other again, no matter what was said or done between us. Part of his magic, at least that’s how I figured it. I think the thing that always amazed me most about him was that when he looked at me he apparently saw the same kind of alchemy.

When he died, I felt the armor fall off me and I swear I heard the crash — unless it was just the sound of my shattered heart clattering to the ground. Maybe they were one in the same.

The funeral is this morning, and here I am, head to toe in black. He hated black, except when he didn’t. He was like that, in constant contradictions. Come to think of it, so am I.

A knock on my door: “Ready, Mrs. McClain?” It’s the funeral director, come to walk me down to sit in front of all the rest of the mourners.

“As I’ll ever be.”

We walk through the funeral home in silence as it seems there’s not much to say in this situation, and I’m grateful for it. If anyone understands the need for silence around death, I guess it would be a funeral director.

The room is full, as I knew it would be. Tom was that way, kind to everyone he knew. It used to make me irrationally jealous of everyone who his smile shined upon. I learned to get over it, in time, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I could hoard every one of his smiles to myself.

Up on the dias, the pastor details his life, his accomplishments and contributions, and various people get up and speak about him. It feels strange, to listen to their perspectives on my Tom. I suppose, to them, he was their Tom, but something wicked inside me wants to stand up and screech at every single one of them that they knew nothing about him, about the magic that lived inside him, and they could never truly understand what we’ve lost.

I don’t cry, and I haven’t, since he died. Maybe I cried enough about him when he was alive. Or maybe, tonight, when everything else has faded away and I’m sitting alone in our little house, that’s when I’ll be wracked with sobs. It seems likely.

Now comes the part where I’m supposed to say something. Truthfully, I’ve been awake for a week, trying to pen an appropriate eulogy all night, every night. And nothing. I teeter up the steps of the tiny platform and find myself standing next to his coffin, something I hadn’t mentally prepared for. Setting my black-gloved hands on either side of the podium, I look out over the crowd of people who cared for the love of my life and the wicked anger abates, momentarily, replaced by gratefulness. And yet, not a word comes to mind.

I look back at his coffin — a heaving, mahogany thing — and address it directly.

“You will be missed.”

I can’t help but walk over to it, the last thing he’ll wear before his body goes under dirt, the closest thing to him I have left, and put my hand on the lid. Unable to contain it, I find myself bending at the waist and gently kissing the burnished wood, still completely unable to make the word, “Goodbye,” pass over my lips.

That’s when the tears start.