Chakra Challenge ][ Svadhisthana
Svadhisthana, the Sacral Chakra
2: Tell about a time you physically hurt another person.
There were times he woke up in the middle of the night to feel his hands aching. Looking at the bedcovers did nothing, gave no hint. There was nothing there beyond the usual wrinkles from sleep. No signs, no creases that would've come from clutching the bedspread. Instead, it was a phantom pain. He knew where it came from. He knew that he'd been dreaming seconds before, recalling beating the life out of George Foyet in the dining room of the house he'd once lived in.
Inevitably, that memory brought back to mind the second he'd seen his own bullets embedded in Kevlar and the struggle that followed. The house had practically been destroyed by the two of them fighting their way room to room. He could still feel the stairs against his back if he let the memories linger too long. There was even still a scar across his nose. Yet another thing not to look too closely at in the mirror.
On nights when that happened, he went into the bathroom and washed. First his face, then his arms from elbow down as he remembered. Every strike, every impact of his fist to Foyet's head, from Foyet's head to the floor, until Morgan had pulled him back. He had never been afraid. Infuriated, despairing, grieving through taking the life of the man who had brought it all onto him. He'd never thought he'd felt hate before. There had been obvious animosity between him and his father, but toward Foyet, he felt pure and unadulterated hate.
And that, he reminded himself each time he dared to look in the mirror after washing himself, frightened him. He had felt hate to such a degree and been inside hate to such a degree that he had taken a life without even a hint of regret. It left him with the question: If two people take lives, what makes one a monster, and the other a hero?
2: Tell about a time you physically hurt another person.
There were times he woke up in the middle of the night to feel his hands aching. Looking at the bedcovers did nothing, gave no hint. There was nothing there beyond the usual wrinkles from sleep. No signs, no creases that would've come from clutching the bedspread. Instead, it was a phantom pain. He knew where it came from. He knew that he'd been dreaming seconds before, recalling beating the life out of George Foyet in the dining room of the house he'd once lived in.
Inevitably, that memory brought back to mind the second he'd seen his own bullets embedded in Kevlar and the struggle that followed. The house had practically been destroyed by the two of them fighting their way room to room. He could still feel the stairs against his back if he let the memories linger too long. There was even still a scar across his nose. Yet another thing not to look too closely at in the mirror.
On nights when that happened, he went into the bathroom and washed. First his face, then his arms from elbow down as he remembered. Every strike, every impact of his fist to Foyet's head, from Foyet's head to the floor, until Morgan had pulled him back. He had never been afraid. Infuriated, despairing, grieving through taking the life of the man who had brought it all onto him. He'd never thought he'd felt hate before. There had been obvious animosity between him and his father, but toward Foyet, he felt pure and unadulterated hate.
And that, he reminded himself each time he dared to look in the mirror after washing himself, frightened him. He had felt hate to such a degree and been inside hate to such a degree that he had taken a life without even a hint of regret. It left him with the question: If two people take lives, what makes one a monster, and the other a hero?