Misguided martyr

Standing there with disbelieving eyes, seeing a sunny scene go dark. Previously envious heart now steeled by cold reality. Stoic, her words dripping with hurt, "Oh, so it rains too where you are?"

Those words were daggers aimed at the heart, fuelled by blinding anger. She could see the impact of her words as the shoulders slumped and the head slowly turning to face her.

Too slow. Her hands struck and sent her opponent flying to the ground.

Muffled by the ground she heard a soft whisper: "No. Please. You thought wrong. I never said that. It never happened as you thought it did"
Stony silence.
The voice tried again: "What is it that I did wrong? What do you want me to do?"
Still not a word and the heart of her opponent sunk.

Now the time for talking is over. Her wounds felt so raw, body aching and head thumping with the drumming of her blood. Adrenaline makes you taste invincibility. She wants this to be over fast, fearing that a moment would provide a window for doubt. All she wants is for her opponent to feel hurt, regardless of what is right or wrong. The score to be settled is just whether you're hurt or not.

She struck a blow. Stopped.
Oh, there's movement. That signals another blow. And another just to make sure.

She stared down at her opponent who never stood a chance. All she wants is victory. Although victory now taste coppery, like blood. She stood there until darkness came. Then quietly, she stole away without ever looking back.

No use looking back anyway. Her opponent should've known that this would happen. They have to know. It is their responsibility.  Even if she never breathed a word about it, as friends they have to know. If she kills them because of their error, it is not her fault. They brought this down to themselves.
She hurts too, don't they know?
Even after death, they are guilty. Guilty for failing her. In the end, she is the hurt martyr, fighting a lost cause.
Alone again, as it always have been.