Therapy Bits

They called me a defector.

I suppose that’s accurate, though the word tastes bitter, like ashes left behind after a fire. Last night I walked away from the camp, away from the oaths stitched into my skin like scars. The sentries shouted, but they did not chase. They didn’t need to. The punishment for betrayal is worse than death—it is erasure.

Still, I kept walking.

The city lights shimmered on the horizon, a promise of anonymity. I imagined slipping into the crowds, losing myself in their mundane chatter, their laughter, their careless way of being alive. A place where my name, once sung in loyalty, is nothing more than another syllable.

At dawn, I reached the checkpoint. The guards studied my papers, my trembling hands. Their eyes hardened as the scanner painted my history in red. “Defector,” one of them muttered, as if the word alone could bruise me.

“Then let me defect,” I said.

It was the only truth I had left.

For a moment, silence hovered. Then the gate hissed open.

On the other side, children darted across streets, unburdened by allegiance. Vendors shouted over the steam of food carts. The air smelled of oil and cinnamon instead of smoke.

I stepped through, my heart pounding louder than any anthem I’d ever sung.

Behind me, the gate clanged shut. Ahead, the world unfolded, vast and uncertain.

A defector, yes. But finally, I was my own.

Defector – Word of the Day Challenge