~
I Do So Hate the Taste of Ash
~
He knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that, the way
the blade glided across my throat. Straight and clean. It was a work of art, really. Not that I’d
paint the scene of my death on a pretty canvas, but sometimes I just like to
recognize an artist for their talent. I remember the feel of warmth running
over my chest, an unusually comforting feeling considering the circumstances.
Some details stick with you in that kind of moment. Usually
useless things, of course: the small patch of mildew in the corner of the
ceiling that looks like a strawberry, or that fancily carved flute on the
mantelpiece that I never got around to learning. I remember the moonlight
cascading dancing shadows of the trees waving in the wind just outside my
window in unison with the flickering from the fireplace. On second thought, it
might make a pretty painting after all.
I saw it coming. Had it
coming. Some things just can’t stay in the past. Sometimes things just won’t
stay dead.
But, really, who am I to judge?
You don’t get used to dying. It becomes familiar after a
while if you do it enough, but you don’t get used to it. There’s a difference.
The taste is always the first thing I notice, like burnt
sand and feathers coating my tongue and the roof of my mouth: gritty, dry, and
damned bitter. I’ve learned to keep my eyes shut at first. It took a few deaths
to get that down. It’s a bit different than waking from a restful sleep, waking
after dying. All the survival instincts kick in like they suddenly remembered
how useless they were a few hours ago and want to make up for it.
I never really got how there gets to be so much ash. I
mean, I’m crawling out of a heap of the stuff, but a body should only
disintegrate to a small pile, right? You’d think ashes would be easy to crawl
out of, too. Not so much. The ash itself weighs next to nothing, but somehow
your limbs weigh down like anchors as much as the rest of your body. The
feeling tends to start in the arms and neck, just enough to barely move with
the right amount of effort. Which is a lot. The feeling strengthens when it’s
out of the ash. Get an arm out and the rest is manageable. Pain in the neck,
though. Especially the time when all I had to work with was my chin poking out
at first and the rest of me dead weight.
I wonder if he stuck around long enough to see me turn
into ashes. I always thought that’d be pretty interesting to watch. Never did
get to talk to a proper eyewitness on the matter. I like to think it would be a
slow crumbling, maybe in pieces, like an elbow, a few fingers and a shin before
the rest follows. Or perhaps it starts in one spot and spreads outward like an
infection from the wound. Could be all flashy, though, and I spontaneously
combust into flames just after losing consciousness or some such. That’d be fun
to watch, too. Don’t see that everyday.
Looks to be sunrise. I’ve always just assumed the time
delay was some sort of defense mechanic or whatnot. Supposedly there’s a way to
bypass it; come back almost instantaneously. Would be nice to get around the
whole half-paralyzed-crawling-out-of-your-own-ashes scenario. But I never
learned. No one to learn it from. Guess it didn’t do much good for ‘em, seeing
as how the allegedly “immortal” race apparently weren’t so immortal after all.
I do alright. Try to keep dying to a minimum, you know. I do so hate the taste of ash.
At least I’m in my own room. Clothes don’t magically
appear back on a body after ashing, as convenient as that would be. The absence
of clothes kind of supports my ‘spontaneous combustion’ theory, though. The
clean up can be a pain, too. If ever you get the option to choose where you
die, make sure it’s far enough from home to not make a mess of it. And seeing
as how no one but my old friend Roke knows what I am (as far as I can tell
anyhow), I always gotta do the clean up myself. Letting the hired help see such
a strange mess would only throw me deeper into the ‘eccentric’ reputation.
Anything out of the ordinary is a marvel with folks ‘round here, and my aim is
far from that of drawing attention to myself. Of course you can see how well that turned out for me.
I never did see the guy’s face. Or if I did it’s turned
into a useless blur in my memory. Not that I’d go on a whole revenge crusade or
anything, but it’s always good to know who to avoid. There’s been a time or two
when a witness of my death bumps into me again. They just got wide-eyed and I
acted like nothing ever happened. Blame it on the drink or some drug. At least
‘round here people know not to go pointing at someone who aint dead and
blabbering that he is. Unless, of course, he was going for a sure way to get
himself shunned out of town. Like ol’ Markus some time ago (thereafter known as
Marky the Mad); the poor fool just wouldn’t let it go. So the town let him go.
Think he lives in a tree somewhere now.
Sometimes it takes a while to shake the sensation of
death off. I mean, here I am a few weeks later and I can still feel the steel
against my neck. Like I said, some things stick with you. I can even feel the
warmth running over my… wait… ah damn it.
