Some battles are for life.
Soren is surrounded. He spins around. He holds his sword before him in the classic position of defense. The enemy is fully clad: doublets, surcoats, gloves, helmets, breastplates, chain mail. They are fully armored: swords, daggers, knives, battle axes, lances, spears. Soren knows they have been sent by his father. Just as always: his father sends an army to annihilate him and doesn't come himself, to face the son he abandoned.
Soren is fully aware that he faces the enemy alone. He is alone, but his family is safe where his father can do them no harm. There will be no more beatings, no more pain, no more cries in the night. Soren is now the guardian of his family.
He feels his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword, a grip of steel. He breathes. He is ready, and he doesn't wait. He leaps to the attack, swinging his sword, face contorted in blazing anger. As he strikes, he imagines that every lethal foe is his father. Every splash of blood washes over the memory of his father's cruelty. Every severed limb reduces the power his father exerts over him, even from afar. Soren does not know where his father is now, but no matter. He feels the power of his own fury as he arcs his arms with deadly aim. He will remain strong. He will not let his father destroy him. He will prevail.
The door opens, and a figure looms like a black cloud. The figure reaches to the side and flips on the wall switch, flooding the battlefield with light. Soren's mom. She surveys the room, where smashed action figures cover the floor, the bookcase, the bed. "What happened here?" she asks.
Soren raises the plastic sword over his head and says, "Justice."
(Word count: 299)