My Achilles Heel is my love of writing, but my fear of rejection.
The cold stream covers my feet and ankles flows slowly, like sap from the tree. Each step forward is not one that I take due to my own accord, but rather the sands of time driving my wet, naked feet through the path formed by all those who have predated me. Charon has yet to stop and pick me up on his boat, for he believes that this finite walk is one that I should take, to show me the value and shortness of life, but the scorn that burns through my body is too much to bear.
This river made Achilles as invincible as the concept of life and death, but all I feel is the sharp sand push against my bare feet, never puncturing the skin. My forthright momentum is unobstructed by the pain that I feel, for it is impossible to bleed below the gentle current. My prophecy is one of uncertainty and strain, yet the Trojan army is converging on me as I write this. The archers are young, practiced and thirsty for blood – my blood.
To sheath myself under the water would be the coward’s way forward. Invincibility is only given to those that can’t handle the vulnerability that is presented to them on a silver platter, and I know that these arrows won’t slow me do. Instead, I continue through the sap to my inevitable but uncertain fate, and let the arrows enter my mortal flesh, one after the other.
My body screams out in pain, but it will be temporary and just another test from some greater power that I’ll never understand. The frail, broken skin that once hid me from the outside elements is a pin cushion, and it slowly falls into the water, causing Charon to fish it out like a mere slave. Knowing that the wounds will never heal, my feet take me further into the river Styx, refusing to stop for fear that if they do, they won’t start up again.