Cushioning the Blow

    Pulling on my jacket, I located my purse, cell phone, keys…. That’s everything, I thought. Reaching down, I grabbed one final object before heading out the door: a battered old shield.

                                                                           

   Glancing at the dull, dented surface, I shook my head – it needed replacing soon. I had had this shield for ages now and it showed…it had been through a lot.

  Ah well, I couldn’t think about that now, I was going be late. I grasped the wrought iron closer to my chest and strode quickly from the room. This shield had become an inseparable part of my wardrobe. My world was a cold, cruel place, and I had to be prepared. Even now, as I ran out the door to meet up with a few friends, I clutched the clumsy object tightly. I needed this shield to protect myself. Nothing could penetrate it, nothing – not love, hatred, or anything in between. I was safe, too safe maybe; but I couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow myself to be hurt…again.

 

  My shield was called a lot of things: Aloof, Busyness, Flamboyance, Shyness, Sarcasm…too many names to keep track of. I called him Cushion for short.

Mr. Cushion.

 

  He was the only real friend I had; the only one I could really trust. He protected me from the blows of enemies and friends and was always on hand whenever I felt afraid. I would sometimes pull him out for no reason at all, just to ward off possible threats. The metal sent chills through me but I did not care: that hard, cold ache was better than the stabbing pain I would feel if I put him down. If I was being pummeled now – with him in hand – I could only imagine the pain I would feel otherwise. I never went anywhere without him. He always kept me safe.

 

But I didn’t know if I wanted to be safe….