A Suit of Armor

She was born in a suit of armor. 

She did not know this was not normal, of course. The world needs its warriors, and even those without armor learn to fight.

At first, she hardly noticed it at all. Why would she? So little of childhood is spent looking inwards. The little imperfections that might have told her otherwise seemed to be the idiosyncrasies of youth. So what if she was a bit clumsy, socially and physically? Every child is, at some point or another. So what if the armor cracks and breaks, in the moments when no one is looking? Every child knows instinctively to hide their weaknesses, and she knew in her heart that broken armor is not something to show to the world. Never mind that no one else seemed to be wearing any. 

She learns to be grateful. Time passes, and the armor weathers, but seems to grow stronger with age. Perhaps she has become better at operating its shelled legs and arms, at pantoming normalcy. 

But the weakness of all armor, even the kind you are born with, has always been the person inside. One day lightning strikes, and no amount of armor is able to protect her. She sees someone else who has taken off their armor, and they are beautiful.

She didn’t know beautiful was something she could be. It hurts.

It scares her, too, how quickly her curiosity spirals into something more primal. A need she didn’t know she had. 

Suddenly she looks towards herself, and sees for the first time the suit of armor in all of its splendor. And it is splendid, she thinks—in its own way. 

She is confronted with a choice. She can keep on her armor; it is familiar, if not comfortable, and when she’s feeling strong she can convince herself it pleases her to wear it. It has its benefits, in an aesthetic, removed sort of way. Others seem to like it.

For a time, this is what she does. She wears her armor, polishes it so that it gleams softly and oils its joints so that it moves with silent grace. But no matter how much it sparkles, it always looks lackluster compared to the human she wants to be.

She appreciates it. She really does, and it is this appreciation that makes her disgust for it all the more unbearable.

The thing is, as strong as the suit might make her feel, she doesn’t want to be a suit of armor. She wants to be a human being. And when she is strong, and distracted, the suit is manageable. But it is in the dark moments, when the suit of armor seems poor protection indeed against the feelings in her heart, that it becomes unbearable. It feels claustrophobic; the smell of oil and metal fills her mouth, and she wants to gag. The sense of fundamental wrongness pervades her entire being. 

So she takes it off, in private at first. She is scared to do so, but even these little moments come to subsume all of her days. The moment she accepted that she could take it off, even a little, a damn seemed to have broken. She is nervous, every thought a streak of lightning, every heartbeat a strumming thread of light. But there is no going back. The thought of staying in that suit, for forever, is impossible.

For the first time, the future feels like hers to make.