She was a warrior.
Not the kind that you picture her to be.
No breastplates, helmets, duelling swords, and chariots! Those were built for cowards. Not her!
No hurling abuses or war cries, yet her voice traversed and broke all seams, walls, and boundaries!
She fought for truth and justice most righteously.
Her truth was deadlier than any of their masked lies combined.
She knew they would come for her.
Hiding behind masks and slinging loaded guns, they greeted her with bullets when she stepped into her home.
´Hey Ram! My battle is over. But the show must go on´.
As she collapsed into the chair, her deadliest weapon slipped from her fingers onto the marble floor—her mighty little pen.
She smiled, looking heavenward.
(Word Count: 124)