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“Oh, greetings!” Comes a cheery voice, belonging to a short blonde haired woman. She sits down, and peers closely. “What doth be the matter, if I may ask? Perhaps, could there be something that ails thee? If that is indeed the case, I should like to hear it, although perhaps given thine present state,” she gives a sweeping gesture, “It may be obvious. However, t’would be unseemly to make any sort of assumptions. I should like to hear it from thine own mouth.”
She sagely nods her head. “You doubt my intentions, and perhaps see them as ill. Very well! Perhaps, first, an introduction is in order! Well then, once more, greetings! I am Don Quixote! I shall bring a world where Justice prevails! I am here to protect the weak, and it seems that you, my companion,” she crosses her legs and continues to beam, outshining even the sun, “Are that which I have sworn to protect!”
“It is quite difficult, isn’t it?” She asks, “Although I do not struggle with it mineself, I understand that it is often a troublesome ordeal to survive amidst the ranging onslaught of one’s thoughts. Perchance, my companion, doth thou have any sort of faith? Oh, you look at me with such eyes. I do not mean in the manner of which thou art thinking, although that, too, will suffice.
“It may be in thine best interest to establish a moral code, and to stick by it as gospel,” in a sudden motion, she stands, and slaps her palm against her chest with a flourish, “I am here to protect the weak! I take care of myself for that purpose! Even when all hope hath abandoned me, I shall remain steadfast! For I am Don Quixote!”
She sits back down. “I protect as I exist to do,” she crosses her legs, and rests her hands on her ankles. “What say you? Thine wouldst go through Hell and high water to protect and help those that you care about. Would it not be possible to think of thineself as a separate entity? Thou art someone to care about as well.”
Don Quixote nods. “Of course. 'Tis not quite an easy feat to change thine perception of thineself in a night. I understand that there art many burdens lying upon thine shoulders; there art many pitfalls thine art stuck in. Once you manage to escape one, thou art trapped by another…” She stares up at the ceiling, gazing at it with such unbelievable reverence, as if every aspect of the world was sacred, “It is simply a case of unraveling each and every knot. There are many thorns in thine side. You cannot attempt to remove them all at once. Thou art slowly bleeding out. One at a time. Find the source. Remove it. Perchance this seems of great difficulty, and you feel that you would not be capable. However, I would dare to say, t’would be a misconception.”
She looks back, and her eyes are sparkling, and contained in her overwhelmingly brash and sanguine words was an infinite tenderness. “To survive is oftentimes the most difficult thing one can do; to live, to truly live, is another. There exists no situation in this world that cannot be fixed. It is much easier said than done. But,” she holds up her pointer finger, “Thine must focus on one at a time. A small thing at the time. Thy cannot save the world in a night, no. But you could do the dishes. You could change the sheets.”
Her grip is firm, resolute. “Straighten up your room before you save the world. And then save the world.”
Quixote continues, “But, these changes cannot, and will not be instantaneous. You know this well, but you treat it as if it were something negative. Could thou not see it as it truly is, something positive, something with limitless possibilities and potential? Change can happen. It will take time. But, it will come. This much shall always be true. Of course, thy could not be blamed for thine pessimism; thou art dying a slow death; bleeding out slowly and painfully.”
There’s a look in her eyes with no name, but it has an unmatched intensity. She burns like a forest fire, like a candle with a flame that could never possibly die. “Despite thine actions, despite thine thoughts, I am of the firm belief that thy do not wish to die. If thy did, thou wouldst have died long ago. You wish to live happily and freely, unburdened by those thorns in your side, free from that which ails you. You wish to be loved. You wish to be treated as you deserve, as you truly deserve, not what your clouded mind has decided. That is not your fate, comrade.
“Those who wish to die will do so silently, disappearing under the cover of the night. Those who scream they want to die are not screaming that they want to die; they are begging for help," her hands shake, and she clenches her fists, and leans in close. So close, so close that there was no distance, no sense of personal space, no freedom from her oppressive, radiant presence, “And Don Quixote would never ignore one whom is in need of mine aid. And yet, I do not decide the fate of others. I am here to protect the weak, and under my protection I intend to ensure that within a firm grasp, they hold their own wills. If thou art truly secure in seeing death as a salvation,
“Then I will not stop you, as I would not have had the opportunity.”
Silence falls like torrential rain; swiftly, abundantly, jarringly; the juxtaposition between the incessant noise of her words and voice and the abrupt stillness like a knife to the heart.
Thankfully, she continues, and that horrible silence shatters like glass on tile. “There is quite a substantial difference between wishing for the pain to end, and wishing for death. I would wish thine to not get the two confused, nor see them as synonymous. You are my precious comrade, and someone weak whom I am to protect.”
Quixote’s gaze turns cold, and she looks off into the distance—further than the distance; further and further, towards that unreachable star. “Once you die, that is it. There are no more possibilities. I hath experienced the infinitely tender and cold kiss of death, and, if I may so cruelly be your informant: there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no salvation in death.
“Life possesses infinite possibilities. Death is one of these. But after death there is nothing. There is no chance for sadness, but there is no chance for happiness. This, my companion,” she turns, and smiles, melancholy, “...is something I feel imperative for you to understand.”
Quixote stands, brushes her pants off, and extends her hand. “I am Don Quixote. I am a Knight, and I fight for Justice. I am here to protect the weak. If you are in need of my support, I shall come to your aid, within the best of mine capabilities. Thou art my friend, and mine comrade.
Again, she smiles. “Perhaps thou art no longer in need of my words. Perhaps thine did not wish to hear them in the first place. And that is alright. But, a time may come wherein thou mayst need to hear them. And there, perchance, may have been a time in the past that thou hath needed to hear them. And thus, I shall say them, although I do apologize for their lateness. I can only hope that hearing it now might bring thee some sense of comfort.”
She turns, and begins to walk away, waving all the while, beaming like sunshine. “Until we meet again, my dear companion; let us meet in a less dire situation next time! I should very much enjoy speaking to you once more—but until then, farewell!”