better than last time
There is much in the way of things that I don't understand. First and foremost being how I'm still alive. Unless I am dead; but then the feeling of being dead is so similar to feeling alive, that I'm not sure how dead people come to terms with it. I grew up hearing that I would walk on clouds and speak to the angels at the gates and then be admitted into their kingdom to sup and dine with gods on their high mountain tops. Though I dare say if my life's deeds earned me a spot at the gods' table, I would think them mad. I should be damned to eternity, slave to demons! It was the least I deserved, anyway.
What I did not expect, however, was to find myself in a dark, stinking hovel, laying on a cot a dog would not even touch. I looked around, spying a small window covered with a thick square of fabric, an old, cluttered table stacked with moldering dishes and cracked pots, and the door which looked like it had been trampled by a wagon. There was sunlight but no demons. I don't think I could have dreamt up a stranger hell had I been piss drunk and trying to woo a donkey.
Secondly, I could not figure out why my body ached like it did. The plausible answer being that all the newly dead feel their death wounds seemed satisfactory at first, yet death by poison implied no pain, relatively speaking. Unless they beat me afterwards, those bloody bastards. I tried an experimental movement, attempting to lift my hand in front of my face. The effort brought a grimace and a loud groan from the rest of me and thus did I meet my first demon.
What I did not expect, however, was to find myself in a dark, stinking hovel, laying on a cot a dog would not even touch. I looked around, spying a small window covered with a thick square of fabric, an old, cluttered table stacked with moldering dishes and cracked pots, and the door which looked like it had been trampled by a wagon. There was sunlight but no demons. I don't think I could have dreamt up a stranger hell had I been piss drunk and trying to woo a donkey.
Secondly, I could not figure out why my body ached like it did. The plausible answer being that all the newly dead feel their death wounds seemed satisfactory at first, yet death by poison implied no pain, relatively speaking. Unless they beat me afterwards, those bloody bastards. I tried an experimental movement, attempting to lift my hand in front of my face. The effort brought a grimace and a loud groan from the rest of me and thus did I meet my first demon.