Critical Hit: The World’s Clumsiest Sword Saint

A wry, evil smile escapes the woman's lips as they part to call out to me at my apartment door.

"Luke! Hurry up already! We're gonna be late… again!"

I huff exasperatedly, tugging at the waistband to my slacks. "A minute!" I call back. Suddenly, my leg snags at an awkward angle inside the leg of the pants, and a loud, resounding THUMP! spreads throughout the small studio room.

Instead of sounds of worry, a giggle escapes from outside, flushing my bright cheeks even further as it was followed by an overly cheery, "What was it this time?"

Rather than respond, I hurriedly finish dressing myself, buttoning the last few buttons upon my shirt as I fling open the small door to reveal the bony girl waiting behind it. Christy, my plain-looking coworker, stood patiently, as she had probably been for the past few minutes, with her pale hands clung together behind her back. "There you are," She chirps, already forcing her way past me into the cramped living quarters. Lightly crinkling her round nose, she tugs at a stay piece of her frizzy, unorganized light brown hair as she gazes at the slightly unorganized scene. "I swear, if I didn't know your condition, I'd be judging you by now."

"You say that every morning," I shoot back, rolling my eyes heavily. "Also, I don't have a condition, you turd."

"Hey! Not nice!"

I ignore her squealing complaints as I work on tying the dress shoes I've worn every weekday for the past 3 years. While it was true that I had no such condition, and I was actually in perfectly average health, the complete lack of coordination I seemed to possess suggested otherwise. Luckily, my and Christy's job was a completely lackluster office job in none other than Seattle, Washington, and was less than 5 minutes walking from this very room.

Finally, I am prepared to leave, munching on some toast smeared with jelly that Christy had made for me. According to her, I can't even be trusted with a butterknife.

Which, as much as I'd like to deny, is a valid worry.

We promptly arrive at the corner of a large block squeezed full to the brim with skyscrapers after leaving, each building reaching almost endlessly towards the dim gray sky. Christy lets out a long sigh, a slight hint of pre-exhaustion hiding beneath it. "Ready for another invigorating day at the job?"

Her words remind me of what the rest of the day had in store, sitting in front of a computer for 10 hours. All I could do was laugh sarcastically at the rhetorical question, before we finish the commute by entering the second building from the corner we stood on.

Most of my days progressed the same way: Christy coming to ensure I hadn't fallen and hit my head in the mornings, the short walk from one tall building to the next, sitting in our undersized cubicles, typing away for a small-name company, and then ordering delivery to my apartment before Christy returns to her own home. Then, rinse and repeat.

I must've been a little too stuck pondering this, however, as Christy suddenly grabs my arm in a manner quite uncharacteristic for a girl who was all skin and bones. I jerk back from the street as a delivery truck blares its horn angrily and continues to drive past. The speed limit was 25 mph, but to all the drivers here that was only a mild suggestion. I blink; this was actually a common thing to happen with me, especially on the walks home from work. Christy knew this as well, proven by her immediate response of "Again? You definitely have a thing for Mister Truck."

"Oh yeah, you know how bad I need a redo to my life," was my quick reply, regaining my footing. Despite all the loud city noises, I can hear a small sniffling from behind me. In confusion, I turn around. I mean, this was a pretty normal occurrence, and I doubt she was so worried that she would cry. However, once my eyes landed upon her face, I immediately understood.

Possibly because of how overloaded with work we were during the day, and the rush to get out the door in the morning, I hadn't gotten a good look at my friend up until now. She was extremely pale, and the sniffling was clearly due to a stuffy nose. And yet, she had probably just saved my life.

"Hey, you alright?" I prod carefully, placing a hand on the side of her shoulder. "How long have you been feeling like that?"

"Like what?" she asks back cheerily, wiping the back of her hand on her nose . "Like I'm queen of the world?"

I roll my eyes, dropping my hand. "Go home, dumbass. We're already at my apartment building. And take the day off tomorrow."

She raises an eyebrow at me judgingly. "Ha, yeah right. You'd die in an instant without me."

Without missing a beat, I scoff. "I don't think I'll fall off an elevator, and the carpet will catch me anywhere else I fall. And, I promise I won't go searching for a willing truck while you're gone tomorrow. Deal?" The hand was re-extended, this time in offer of a handshake. "I'll be fine for one day, I promise."

A partially troubled expression crosses her face, but finally her near-skeletal hand meets mine. "Fine. No dying, you hear?"

"No dying."

After that, we waited in a comfortable silence until the cab she called arrived. She turned to give me a little wave before hopping into the backseat, and they drove off.

A small, content huff puffs from my lips as I turned to enter my building. It felt good to help her after looking after me for almost 3 years now. And before her, I survived just fine on my own.

Constantly cut and bruised, but surviving.

I would be fine for one day!