A Warrior’s Woman

Her Struggle ... With Love
Her Struggle … With Love

Harold Renegade pressed his lips against mine, and murmured softly: “Fourteen words. Don’t you forget it baby.” He let me go, still breathless, and started gathering his equipment, that scary looking rifle of his and his night vision goggles and rucksack. “Billions will die, but we will win, Margaret.” “We will secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” He paused, glancing briefly at my now swollen belly, then silently looked off into the distance.

“Our children, Maggie.”

I swooned.

“We’ll be gone for a week, at most,” he said. “You have your pistol, right? Call Shirley if anything happens. Remember, I’m fishing with Bill, if anyone asks. I won’t have my cell phone, so the NSA can’t track me.”

He turned, and stared at me with his icy blue eyes, and a wistful smile crossed his face. He walked over to me, reached his hand out and pulled my bangs away from my eyes and brushed his fingers across my lips. “I love you, Maggie. I’ll always love you.”

“Be safe!” I cried, a single tear running down my cheek. “Oh Harold, I’m so frightened for you! What if … if …” I couldn’t get the words out. I sobbed quietly.

“Maggie, I’ll be safe, I promise.” He paused. “Mrs. Renegade.” He winked at me, and kissed my cheek. “Tell the girls I love them. See you in one week.”

And just like that, my White Warrior walked out the door, as he had done so many times in the past, and no doubt would again in the future. Until the struggle was won. I sighed. Straightening myself up, I dried my tears, walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

“You are a Warrior’s wife! Mrs. Renegade of the Aryan Army. A strong fighter for the cause!” I felt a surge of courage running through my body, a defiant look crossing my face. All the sadness, all the fear drained out of me as I was overcome with a feeling of pride – pride for our people, pride for our army, pride for my man – Harold Renegade, Commander of the Aryan Underground Army. Freedom Fighter!

Just then, I felt the baby kick against my insides, hard. Harold Jr. – he had understood! He felt it too. A sign, in his spirit he knew he would be born into the struggle. I rubbed my belly. “Fourteen words, Harold Jr. Fourteen words.”


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