Random Musings of a Dead Man — Part 2

“Dave…. DAVE!…… DAAAAAVVVEEEEE!!!!”

I love shouting his name. Although I do not even know if he is called Dave, like me, he is dead so he cannot even hear me. Why, I hear you ask, well, that is a difficult, “life” shattering theory to explain so maybe one day I will be bothered to elaborate on it and let you know. I will say this though, they used to be able to hear me.

After publishing my first short snippet of an event in my past life on some of these online platforms, I received a few questions such as; Are you sure you are dead? What is the afterlife like? What do you look like? And blah blah blah. People seem to be missing the important and exciting questions and I am ever so curious as to how long it will take before people realize and then start pestering.

Well, I can safely say I am definitely, 100%, dead and have died more than once over more years than I can remember. As for the afterlife, this juicy bit of information I am going to hold onto until I decide you are ready to know the truth.

I was thinking the other day about how we used to cook compared to the way cooking is done now. I was soon caught up in a haze of recollections and was chortling to myself about my first ever scar. Unlike the normal war wounds that decorated my body (mostly war wounds), this was caused by helping a village elder move a pot of stew and without thinking, I just grasped at the handles. We have all done it when our mind is wrapped up in its blissful ignorance of whatever made-up world we are imagining. Then my thoughts drifted onto my other scars and I had the bright idea to tell you about one.

Let’s start with the largest monstrosity that reached from the edge of my left shoulder blade, curving down and across my spine until finally ending on my right hip. This particular scar is what earned me the nickname ‘Child of Moon’.

We were a tribe of warriors, some of, if not the finest in the region and every third full moon we would meet with other tribes where the younger, hotheaded scrappers would challenge each other to strut their dominance in front of the women. It wasn’t till I was much older that I realized how ridiculous this was. The elders would mix together around the fire, share stories and updates regarding their regions then spend most of the evening laughing at this display of bravado that would make a peacock cringe.

I was one of the hotheads.

My first time challenging someone and I felt like I could go head to head with a Rhino. I had a good mastery of the spear and had personally carved mine perfectly so that the staff had etchings running down allowing for a strong slip-free grip and the flint tip was as sharp as a viper’s fangs. Unlike others of our kind, I never used a shield. Some would look at that as arrogance but for me, my style was quick and aggressive, a heavy lump that restricted an arm just never worked in well.

Touching spears, we began. My movement was fast as I danced around lashing out and clashing against my opponent’s defensive wall. I never fully committed, just testing the waters and waiting for my time to strike. But his stance was strong. Crouched low so most of his body was protected by the shield whilst allowing for full control over his balance. He never looks at my spear or my feet, instead, his eyes were fixed directly on to mine and he watched with a startling intensity that started to make me feel uneasy. In front of me was an unmovable mountain, an eagle ready to strike, one mistake and I knew it would be over.

I danced around desperately trying to find a weakness, some form of crack in his armour but there was nothing. I had only one option left, a gamble that could cost me dearly. I flipped my spear around so that the blunt base was facing him and watched as a flicker of confusion tinged his eyes. Lunging forward in a rash manner he swiftly dodged to one side exposing my back. Time seemed to slow down, I could sense every bit of movement, hear every beat of my heart and I waited for what seemed like an eternity. The reality was less than a second when I felt a sharp hot pain sear across my back, he had taken the bait. Flicking my wrist back, the true point of the spear came to rest swiftly under his chin with the point just breaking the skin. Glancing over my shoulder I could see he had completely frozen, shock as bright on his face as the morning sun as a realization began to set in. The tension in the air dissipated as he let out a belly rumbling laugh, stood straight, and congratulated me on my daringly bold win. My back burned with the fury of a volcano but adrenaline had flooded through my blood followed by an overwhelming ecstasy at winning my first match.

For the first time, the elders looked at me with respect and the start of my journey had truly begun. My opponent’s name was Orinoco and we fought side by side many times. He was a formidable warrior, so much so he had a river named after himself. But most importantly, he became my dearest friend.

Even in death, where the scar no longer exists on my body, I still sometimes feel the dull ache when I twist awkwardly.

I will end it there for today and as always, leave you with a question.

How could I have died more than once?

I hope you enjoyed part 1 in this quirky series. Feel free to check out the other parts and support my stories with buying me a coffee.

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