"Hah! All that fuss about raising the bones of the dead from the grave. I will tell you which bone he couldn't raise."
Heckled an onlooker at the sermon of the willer Kam'mayt before she was mysteriously struck by lightning.
The boy woke up sometime later, roused to attention by a familiar sense he could not quite grasp.
He felt a warm dampness beneath him as he came to and assumed he was sitting in a pool of his own shame. He touched the liquid that stained his shorts and discovered it to be thick to the touch, concluding it to be not the foul yellow but the precious crimson.
His mind was a blank mess, and it took him a while to recollect his thoughts and remember what happened.
Matters were soon made worse as his ears picked up a noise carried by the wind. The sound of movement and chatter meant that the day had come and that the denizens of Vagren were now awake and roaming the streets.
The child had to vacate this alley soon before someone happened upon him. Because in this most vulnerable state, he was powerless to resist.
But the boy did not move.
The next few minutes saw him lay on the ground motionless with his head hung low and his legs sprawled out. His hair, ruffled from the fall, now flowed down like a veil covering his face. Even though its rough and coarse ends found their way to the many cuts and wounds on his limbs before resting in his lap, the boy did not move.
He did not even bother to swat away the strands that pricked the white of his eyes.
He did not, because he could not feel any of it.
The boy felt nothing.
In the position he sat in, with all his weight thrown against the wall that supported his back and his knees facing outwards, all his pain had somehow vanished.
His once grumbling stomach whose noise betrayed his position was now silent. The world no longer spun as it did when he dashed away barefooted to escape the clutches of the town's guard. The twitching in his eyes as he refused them a blink out of fear of the stabbing pain faded away.
The boy became numb to every hurt he had once felt. Even the hunger that brought him here seemed like a distant memory.
So the boy stayed put. He did not dare move a muscle, even as more of his life force leaked out to never return.
He was wary that even a single twitch would disrupt this newfound state of bliss.
He flirted with the idea of spending the rest of his time, no matter how short it may prove to be, in this state; free from pain and suffering.
He questioned the need to go further. After all, even if he were to make it out alive, what is there for him to look forward to?
He considered his battered state and realized that there was nothing at the end of this for him. Nothing but a few more days of living in squalor and breathing the same foul-smelling air as he waited for an end that was soon coming.
Why should he suffer waiting for death to waddle its way through this land towards him? Masking its cold and draining touch as mercy when it finds him bedridden and maddened by the pain.
Why should he delay what he cannot prevent?
Why should he relinquish the power to end things on his own terms?
Even though they were dry and lifeless, the child's eyes spared a tear as he thought of how close his relief was. And lucky he was, for all he had to do to reach it was to perform the simplest action known to him — nothing.
It was then that something tumbled within the boy, a rumbling in his mind and a missed beat in his heart. He heard a voice in his head speaking to him, a voice that he was all too familiar with.
How could he not be,? When he spent many sleepless nights conversing with it as he gazed at the sky and envied the amity of the moons.
He knew the owner of the voice and loved him, and he loved none beside him. He was his only friend and solace in this world. In which he confided his many sorrows and shared with his few aspirations. Trivial dreams to many but not to him, no, to him they meant the world in and of itself.
But he hated the voice with the same breath. It filled his heart with disdain and he cursed at it many a time.
How could he not? When every time he heard it reminded him of the root cause of his misery.
'Not you, not now...' He grunted, angry that his moment of peace was disrupted.
'I can't let you do this. You cannot throw it all away!'
The words were in a tongue the boy could not speak. Its vowels sounded like the howling of wolves and the consonants like the splattering of rain on a puddle. Yet their meaning reached him all the same, no matter how hard he tried to block it away.
'All, you say? Heheh,' The child strained a chuckle even though it threatened to reignite the now dormant pain. 'And what all is that? Say, what is the all of nothing? Because that is all I have left.'
'Do not disregard me,' The voice urged, 'The decision is not yours to make, or have you forgotten?'
'I forget nothing! I am in control now. I am the master of my own fate.'
'And is this the fate you chose?' The voice mocked, 'This body is not yours alone for you to surrender it unto death.'
'Not mine? Tell me, this taste of dirt, in whose mouth does it linger?
Who of us resorted to munching on dirt to silence their cravings?
Whose joints ache and squeak as though they were made of wood?
Are they yours?
Do you even know these feelings?
Of course, you don't. Because right now, you are nothing but a daydream. A whispering bug that eats away at the back of my mind.
Leave me alone. As long as this pain mine to feel, so is this body mine to do with as I see fit.'
Even though the words never left the boy's lips, shouting in silence at his own mind still left him breathing heavily.
'You can't stop here, it cannot end like this.' The voice in his mind was unceasing, its tone filled with urgency and pleading. 'To die a failure after all this time. Knowing nothing about the truth we seek, that of our lives and our parents. To perish ignorant of even our name."
'Look around and tell me,' The child sighed, 'What good is a name without a grave to mark it on?
I will die here, that much is clear. To tell the truth, I don't much mind. I tire of living, if that is indeed what I was doing. Death couldn't possibly be any worse.'
The boy felt the voice in his head yammer for a final time, but he could not hear it. And as his consciousness started to fade, he caught himself mumbling an invocation.
'Heh, am I still praying, even now? I am so hopeless.'
Those were the last words the boy uttered as his body slowly slumped to the side.
Death.
Nothing else in this world is more disputed.
It is different things to different people.
What did I just sit on?
What is that thing that moved in the dark?
What is inside that locked chest?
People's minds reject the unknown, and they strive to uncover it, fear and rules be damned.
But few dare try to uncover death. The knife stops short of their necks, shakes in their hands, and then plummets to the ground.
So they pretend that they know it, they hope it to be what they think it is.
Some believe it to be an interlude to something else, they wish it to be the start of another life, a better life.
Others peddle it like wares, they insist that their way and no other is the right way. With faces adorned with smiles, they flash shining teeth that mask their vile tongues behind as they spew poison with each word they utter. They sell it with the lure of salvation and the threat of damnation.
So too did the boy have his own wish, molded from the many encounters he had with death.
What he wished for was simple. Silence, darkness, eternal rest without disruption. An endless slumber in which he could feel no hunger or famish.
But this wish, like many others he had, was not granted. Because instead of falling down to his demise, the boy found himself a prisoner in his own body, staring through its sockets.
'You! You can't do this,' He shouted in anger as he understood what was happening. 'You have no right! It is not your turn.'
'I will have no turn left if I let you go through with it.'
'I don't want this. Please, I can't do this anymore.' He pleaded with tears in his eyes.
The voice did not answer, and the boy's arms moved without his consent, causing what was numb and distant to return with a renewed vigour.
But the crushing pain of his shattered limbs was not met with further complaints. For it served to remind the child of something he had long forgotten.
And even though the movement of the arm that unraveled the tattered shirt wasn't his. The tears that refused to drip down from his eyes were.
"I..I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry.'
'Don't be. It's okay, it has been a long time since the last swap. It is only natural.'
'No! I was going to kill us both.
Everything hurt. I wanted it to end...
I thought I was the only one carrying this burden, that you did not understand what I felt. How could I forget?'
'It is a heavy burden and a great deal of hurt. But we can't let it break us. Neither of us could carry it on their own, but together we can. Please, it is too soon to give up.'
The tear was slow and heavy as it lingered on the tip of his nose and it caused the child much discomfort.
'You would forgive me?' The child sobbed in anger, 'I almost killed you as you helplessly watched.
Me! The one who ought to know best what it feels like to be damned without fault of your own.
You would forgive such a selfish bastard?'
'Yes, I would. What is wrong with being selfish? We must always love ourselves, especially when no one else loves us.'
'Then I ask for it. Please, forgive me.'
'I do. Welcome back, my one and only friend.'
'I am returned and again in your debt, my companion and only solace.'
The tear that dropped and the lip that quivered belonged to them both. No, it belonged to the child. For the voice was his own, and they were both one.