writing @ 3am
It all started with shoe prints in the snow. An image that has haunted me ever after. Silent and lonely, yet they called to me. The solitary prints beckoning me to follow their own journey. Where would they lead? The answer was not something I was ready for. I was not ready for death.
Not my own death, mind you. As how I would be able to write this if I were dead. There are ways to accomplish such feats but I did not care for possession. Nor did I think that being undead would cause me to write my story for others to heed and possible obey. But I saw death for the first time. Real death. Not what is seen on television or read about in books. I experienced it with all my senses. The smell and taste of the blood, the sound of breaths fading into nothing, the signs of life leaving someone's eyes and the feel of their skin settling into death. It was a stranger who died in my arms, his brown eyes shall plead with me for eternity to save him. I had heard the voices and sounds first. I did not recognize the sound of flesh hitting flesh but I did recognize the grunts of pain. Next, the coppery scent of blood reached me and I knew I was very close to this trouble. I had crouched down and continued following those footprints. I frozen in some holly bushes at the scene before me. Two large men were attacking a smaller man in a clearing in the woods. There were specks of red liberally splattered across the ground. If one didn't know better, it could have come from a child playing with a paintbrush. With another punch to the face, the brown eyed man fell to the ground blood flying away from him from the force of the blow. I watched as he was torn to pieces. His arms and legs were broken one by one. The bigger of the two men would hold him still has the other using his legs broke his bones. I felt for sure he would pass out before they could end this torture, but somehow he stayed conscience. While his eyes were wide with pain and despair, occasionally squeezed shut from the agony, he had found mine. I shared his pain that day. It seemed once he knew he was not alone with his tormentors that his body relaxed to the hits. His killers kicked and taunted him as he curled into himself before finally they took a knife to him. It was jabbed several times into his chest before they left with the knife protruding from his body. I waited for the sounds of their boots crushing into the snow to fade before I ran to the man. He spoke to me once as he died, but as I didn't speak his language I didn't understand a word. I just nodded like I had understand what he had said and held onto him. I had reached for the blade but was stopped by his movements. It was obvious he wanted it left alone. Now, I realize that pulling the blade from his body would have implicated me and would have ended his life sooner. After he had spoken to me in his own tongue, he moved his hand to my face. It shook as he struggled to control his dying limbs but he managed to anoint me in his blood. First my cheeks were slathered with cooling blood, then my forehead, next my collarbones before he finished with my lips even dipping his bloodied finger slightly into my mouth.
Not my own death, mind you. As how I would be able to write this if I were dead. There are ways to accomplish such feats but I did not care for possession. Nor did I think that being undead would cause me to write my story for others to heed and possible obey. But I saw death for the first time. Real death. Not what is seen on television or read about in books. I experienced it with all my senses. The smell and taste of the blood, the sound of breaths fading into nothing, the signs of life leaving someone's eyes and the feel of their skin settling into death. It was a stranger who died in my arms, his brown eyes shall plead with me for eternity to save him. I had heard the voices and sounds first. I did not recognize the sound of flesh hitting flesh but I did recognize the grunts of pain. Next, the coppery scent of blood reached me and I knew I was very close to this trouble. I had crouched down and continued following those footprints. I frozen in some holly bushes at the scene before me. Two large men were attacking a smaller man in a clearing in the woods. There were specks of red liberally splattered across the ground. If one didn't know better, it could have come from a child playing with a paintbrush. With another punch to the face, the brown eyed man fell to the ground blood flying away from him from the force of the blow. I watched as he was torn to pieces. His arms and legs were broken one by one. The bigger of the two men would hold him still has the other using his legs broke his bones. I felt for sure he would pass out before they could end this torture, but somehow he stayed conscience. While his eyes were wide with pain and despair, occasionally squeezed shut from the agony, he had found mine. I shared his pain that day. It seemed once he knew he was not alone with his tormentors that his body relaxed to the hits. His killers kicked and taunted him as he curled into himself before finally they took a knife to him. It was jabbed several times into his chest before they left with the knife protruding from his body. I waited for the sounds of their boots crushing into the snow to fade before I ran to the man. He spoke to me once as he died, but as I didn't speak his language I didn't understand a word. I just nodded like I had understand what he had said and held onto him. I had reached for the blade but was stopped by his movements. It was obvious he wanted it left alone. Now, I realize that pulling the blade from his body would have implicated me and would have ended his life sooner. After he had spoken to me in his own tongue, he moved his hand to my face. It shook as he struggled to control his dying limbs but he managed to anoint me in his blood. First my cheeks were slathered with cooling blood, then my forehead, next my collarbones before he finished with my lips even dipping his bloodied finger slightly into my mouth.