I woke with a start, chest tight, throat dry. The air was heavy, stale. My hands reached out and, thunk. Wood.
I froze. Slid my palms sideways. More wood. Above me, below me, everywhere.
"Oh no. Oh bloody no."
My pulse roared in my ears. They'd buried me. Actually buried me. Alive.
I kicked upward, heel striking wood. Nothing. Tried again. A dull crack. Splinters rained down on my face. My skin stung, but it was hope.
I shoved with my shoulder, gritting my teeth. The lid creaked. Then suddenly, CRACK!, one plank snapped. A mouthful of damp soil poured in, right across my lips.
"Pfthh, blechh!" I sputtered, spitting dirt. "Great. My first drink in days, and it's mud."
But the hole was real. I dug my fingers into it, clawing like a rat. The soil collapsed, choking me, filling my nose, my ears. For a moment, I panicked, was I burying myself deeper?
"Come on, Ewan. You've crawled out of worse taverns than this."
I pushed, shoved, dug, thrashed, arms burning, lungs shrieking. The earth gave way. At last, my hand burst into open air, grasping nothing but night.
I dragged myself up, inch by inch, coughing, spitting, clawing, until finally my head broke the surface. Moonlight blinded me. Cold wind slapped my face.
I collapsed half out of the grave, gasping, covered in mud and blood, looking like a swamp creature. My hair stuck out like wet straw, my clothes reeked, worms still wriggled on my sleeve.
I raised one trembling fist toward the heavens and croaked,
"…Still… not… dead."
Then promptly rolled onto my back in the grass, laughing like a lunatic.
---
I staggered upright, legs shaking, neck sticky with dried blood. The wound hadn't fully healed yet, still tender, crusted, oozing a little. Touching it made me dizzy.
"Lovely. I look like a drunk who lost a bar fight with a guillotine."
I stumbled toward the village lights. Bad idea. The moment the first night watchman spotted me, his torch clattered to the ground.
"Sweet Mother of God! The dead walk!"
And just like that, chaos. Bells rang, dogs barked, women shrieked from their windows. A group of lads armed with pitchforks charged straight at me, yelling "Witch! Ghoul! Kill it again!"
I panicked. "Kill it again? I barely survived the first time!"
So I did the only sensible thing, I ran. Straight into the woods. Branches whipped my face, mud sucked at my boots, owls hooted their judgment. Somewhere behind me, the shouts grew fainter.
Finally, breathless, I collapsed against a tree, clutching my still-throbbing neck. The forest was damp, quiet, mercifully empty.
I slid down into the roots, heart hammering, and whispered to the darkness:
"…Aye, it's official. I'm cursed. Absolutely cursed."
The trees didn't answer. Just the wind. And for the first time since Mary, I truly felt alone.
,
The forest was silent, except for my ragged breathing. I leaned against a tree, eyes half-closed, when a voice rasped out of the darkness.
"You stink of death, boy."
I jerked upright. "Who's there?!"
A crooked figure stepped into the moonlight, an old woman, hunched, with a cane twisted like lightning. Her cloak dragged the earth, and her eyes glowed pale, like she hadn't slept since Rome was still a village.
I swallowed. "If you're here to rob me, I should warn you, I've nothing but dirt and bad luck to give."
She snorted. "Rob you? I've no use for corpses."
"Excuse me, what corpses?"
"You." She tapped her cane against my chest. "Dead, but walking. I can smell the grave on you. You've been touched by eternity."
I froze. "…You can smell that?"
She smirked, showing more gaps than teeth. "Child, I've seen many odd things. Witches who age backwards. Soldiers who never bleed. Lovers who turn to wolves at night. But you…" She shook her head. "You are neither blessed nor damned. You are… stuck."
I wanted to laugh, but it came out broken. "Stuck? That's a polite way of saying I'm a freak."
Her cane jabbed my throat, right where the dried blood still clung. I winced.
"Pain still follows you, doesn't it? You can be hurt. Wounded. But when the world expects you to die… you refuse. Like a weed in the cracks of God's garden."
My voice dropped. "Then tell me, old woman… how do I end it? How do I truly die?"
Her eyes darkened. For the first time, she looked unsure. "…That, child, I do not know."
We sat in silence, owls watching like silent judges. At last, she cackled softly. "But I'll say this: if your death comes, it will not be by chance. It will be by design. A cut clean enough to separate heaven from earth."
Her words lingered. I didn't understand them then. I only knew one thing: she wasn't wrong.
---
The old woman squinted at me, then grabbed my hand without warning. Her grip was like talons.
"Oi, what are you, "
"Shut up, boy. I'm reading your threads."
"My what?"
"Your threads of fate." She licked her finger, then smeared dirt across my palm. "Hmm… interesting. Very interesting. You'll live to see horses with no legs."
"…What?"
She nodded seriously. "And wagons that fly in the sky like drunken geese."
I blinked. "Are you drunk right now?"
She ignored me, muttering faster. "Men will trap fire in little glass sticks and hold them in their mouths…"
"You mean candles?"
"... and women will wear trousers."
I gasped. "Blasphemy."
"Oh, and food! Food wrapped in, " she shuddered, "...transparent sheep's guts."
"You mean sausages?"
"No, boy. Softer. Crackly. You'll crinkle it with your fingers, and the bread inside will stay fresh for weeks."
I groaned, clutching my head. "So you're saying I'll suffer through plague, pitchfork mobs, and cursed bread wrappers?"
Her eyes widened. She shook me by the shoulders. "And you must beware… the talking box!"
"The what now?"
"The box that screams songs, gossip, lies, all at once! Small enough to fit in your pocket, powerful enough to rot your brain!"
I laughed nervously. "You're insane."
She leaned so close her nose nearly poked my eye. "Am I? Or will you one day shout at a little box because its 'battery' died?"
I yanked my hand back. "Battery? What even is that word?"
She cackled until she wheezed, then patted my cheek like I was a child. "You'll see, boy. You'll see. Immortality isn't a gift. It's a front-row seat to nonsense no sane man should witness."
I sat there in silence, utterly baffled, while she gnawed on what I prayed was just a root.
"…I should've just stayed in my grave."
---