Page 93 of We Were Eternal Once

There is more blood this time. It doesn’t stop for months. It’s not enough to restore me, I have starved too long for that. It is just enough to prolong my punishment once more.

I have not suffered enough.

I do not understand the seriousness of my existence.

When the vibrations stop, so does the blood.

I close my eyes once more, only to be awoken by more vibrations. Louder, more violent. The surface is closer.

I should have had the man bury me deeper. I should have known I would fail at this, just as I have everything else. I cannot even die.

The blood comes again, and with it the pain. This is deeper than the first two times. Fear, pain, betrayal, hatred. The emotions slide down my throat against my will. I cannot close my lips to them, I must experience them as the dead did.

That is the cost of drinking the blood of the dead.

I share their misery, though they don’t know it. By the time their blood reaches me they’ve been long dead, unaware a companion in death lies beneath them.

Unaware their death keeps me alive.

The explosions stop.

The blood dries in the soil.

I turn my head to the side so when the blood comes again, I cannot drink it.

I cannot slither away.

But I can refuse.

I will die this time. I am not letting anyone else decide but me.

Waking

Adoor slams.

I blink, expecting darkness or dirt. I find neither.

I am in a room, but when I try to focus, my head swims. I double over, my fingers pressed into my temples, waiting for it to pass. My senses are dulled by the searing in my brain.

My head doesn’t just hurt, it’s as if a thousand blades have run through it. I rest like that for a while. I think I sleep, but I don’t know.

When I open my eyes again I’m on my side, my cheek pressed to a cold floor.

There is someone else here. I blink, trying to get them into focus. They swim and tumble, multiply then become one. I open my mouth to speak but my lips are crusted together. It takes all my effort to raise my hand to my mouth, to press my fingers into my cracked flesh. My lips are coated with something. I press my nail into it, flaking it off. My tongue flicks out to taste it.

Blood. And dirt.

Dirt. I was buried. I’d buried myself to starve to death.

But I am no longer buried.

My head swims again as I try to remember, the searing pain returning. There are flashes of memory—of my hand reaching out, of the moon overhead. Was I dug up, or did I dig myself out?

I cannot remember.

Why am I alive? I don’t want to be alive. I was supposed to die, to suffer for all the pain I caused. I cannot say it is for all the humans I killed, I am not sorry for that. It takes me a moment to remember what caused me to bury myself, the memories sluggish and stubborn.

My anger with you.