The Protector

an excerpt

I brought the axe down hard on another junk of wood, sending splintering chunks tumbling to the ground on either side. The once-sweltering sun was sinking towards the tree tops, its’ powerful glow subsiding to dazzling orange. I looked around the oasis I now called home, taking in the woodpiles stretching toward the sky and healthy rows of vegetable stalks leaning in the sun's direction. My arms ached from chopping wood but the routine was important to me, it was my testament to a new life. One where I could try to find some peace from the memories that haunted me, one where I wasn’t always the villain.

Most mornings I spend at the pond's edge with a reel, grateful for whatever offering it gives me. Before dinner, I tend to the gardens like a parent tending to a young child, ensuring each delicate sprout thrives. And each afternoon, I chop wood. Every time my hand slides down to the worn grooves of the axe handle, my mind flickers back to the silhouette of Cathia, like clockwork.