The Eternal.Chapter One.My First Death.The first time I died was a long time ago. I don’t remember many of my deaths,after a while it all seems the same. I was 14. The sun was shining, a beautifulday. Perfect, as some may describe it. I played near the river, it was amemorable spot for a boy. Many others had played there before, it seemedharmless. The river was clear, the water would flow caressing the rocks andbrushing the many roots. But the serenity of the stream gave way to a path ofslaughter, slowly it washed away the river bank. I played there many timesbefore, but this time the river bank was weak it subsided under my feet. Unableto control my balance, I fell. My head pounded on a nearby rock. I remember theshock. The instant sense of pain but it was short. Then it was black. So manytimes it has been black. Pain meant nothing, not anymore.I woke in a small home. One old man had taken care of me whilst I slept. He hadfound my body on the bank near the mouth of the river. So sure of my death hecarried me to a nearby clearing and dug my grave. Upon moving me, I flinched. Hewas scared, startled, but was very sure of my sudden movement. The split in myhead surely meant I was dead. With my injuries I should be dead. The hole wasdeep, it was hollow, much like that of the old tree. Long dead and empty.“How could he have moved?” he questioned himself. I was so young in his eyes, ifI was alive, he wanted every opportunity for me. He returned my body to his homeand took care of my corpse. His home was by the river mouth. I had recovered formany months. He would tell me everyday I was a miracle. I told him of myvillage, my parents, of what I remembered. The old man knows of my village, andfar away he told me it was. Days, even weeks, to reach. I left after the winterhad passed.There was a hill by my village, at its based is where the dead were buried. I hadto cross this valley of death before returning home. My grave carving was therecovered by blades of new grass, my grave had been here for a while. A coldsensation flowed through my body as I read my name on the stone. No one shouldever have to see his own gravestone. I dropped hard to my knees. They had beencertain of my death. I needed to know who was in my grave. I needed to know Iwasn’t a ghost. I needed to be real. I dug for hours before I reached my coffin.Breaking it to find emptiness. My coffin was hollow. I was again alive, real.Thoughts of my family’s grief ran quickly in and out of my mind. They would feeljoy again upon seeing my face. I wasn’t dead, merely lost. I stood tall andwalked for my village.Entering the gates didn’t feel as welcoming as I had expected. Eyes were on me.Searing into my soul. Surprise was not the expression, fear was. I continuedtowards my home. Turning a corner I saw my father. He stared at me, with thesame fear that welcomed me home. My mother walked out of our small home to attendto my father. Her eyes locked onto where my father was staring. She fell fast tothe ground. Eyes closed. I ran to her but was brought down by my father.“Don’t you touch her!” he screamed. “You don’t get to claim her.” I wasconfused. There should be relief, warmth, open arms, tears of joy. I am alive.Their son. What has happened whilst I was away? My father’s voice thunderedthrough my thoughts, “My son is dead. You are a ghost coming to claim us.” Heraised a weapon of wood and swung with all his might. It hit me, hard on mychest. I did not fall as I was already fallen, fallen with heartache andconfusion. He swung again but I got up and ran. Ran. Out of the gates. Throughthe graveyard. Over the mountain. I ran.
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