a feast for worms

The first death was quiet. There was, of course, nothing to be done. There never was. Not really.

It was slow, and dark, and lonely. And I was afraid. I do not remember much of my childhood (if you can call it a childhood), but I remember the fear. I cannot recall exactly how I died, that first time. Only that it was quiet. I think, maybe, I had fallen somewhere. I remember the pain; a broken leg, maybe? I don’t know. I just know that it hurt.

I think, maybe, I had lost a lot of blood. I felt distant. Light-headed. Maybe that makes the memory harder to grasp. Maybe it wasn’t the blood; maybe it was my newness. It was, of course, my first. I had nothing to compare it to. I did not know what to expect.

I did, however, know that I was going to die. It was a feeling, an instinctual urge, more than it was conscious fact. I did not recognize the knowledge; I did not know what dying was or what it meant. I remember the dread. I remember seeing the ending approach. I remember thinking something along the lines of “at least this will be over.” I did not know, back then, that an ending does not mean it was over. It would, of course, never end. Not really.

I would, eventually, grow comfortable in the feeling. I know now that it will keep happening, over and over and over again. The fear receded. It never left, I think, but it is smaller now. Or, maybe, not smaller, but familiar. It is a stranger turned old friend. But I am still always afraid.

I don’t usually remember the lives I’ve lived after they end. I’m never there for long. You’ve asked me, before, about my lives. I tried to tell you as much as I can remember. I told you about the glimpses of the past I could retain, even when the rest was lost to time. I told you about the people I met, the people I was, the places I’ve seen. But it rarely feels like I’m talking about my own memories. I can remember my lives before they end, but I only ever feel like myself when I’m dying. The rest is just context, nothing more.

I’m always given time, before the end. It’s short, but still there. It makes the slow deaths both easier and harder to deal with. Starvation and illness and lingering injury means that I am rarely able to do much beyond dying. I know how to die. It is easy. The quick deaths are different. I begin with the knowledge I will die without the evidence of it. I know it will happen, but I do not know how or when or why. It is a different breed of fear. This one is not a friend of mine. I still do not know how to hold it. I think I may never know.

The quick deaths, however, mean I have time before the dying part. Normalcy, if you can call it that. I can live without pain. I can think without the dragging of a mind desperate for blood, for air, for rest. You liked me best when I was not dying. I still don’t know how to feel about that.

We met for the first time next to a creek.

It was mid-summer. You were young- not quite a child, but young. High School, perhaps? I’m not certain. It was one moment out of millions. They blend together. Time meant little to me then, and it matters little to me still. I did not know the importance until much later.

I was new, again. This was normal. I don’t remember what my name was, in that life. I don’t remember who I was before this, or who I would become next. It is not important. But I do remember the circumstance of our meeting. I had awoken in what I believed to be wilderness. I would soon learn that I was much closer to civilization than I had assumed; it was a park, a stretch of trees with scattered hiking trails. It was small. Walking in any direction would likely lead to pavement or cornfield within an hour or so. The main path was a wide, flat asphalt. I was not on this path, and neither were you.

I had woken at the stream’s bank. The water was low. I don’t know what brought the body there, before I became it. I did not question it. I rarely did. I was wearing a suit, and a suitcase laid on the ground nearby. I was unblemished, and so was the suit. I found this bizarre, but nothing of particular interest. I had awoken in odder dress in much stranger lands than this. The novelty had worn off long ago. I knew immediately that this would be a quick death. The body was healthy and moving and alive. I think I was trying to work out who I was. Standard procedure. Waking was made easier with the modern convention of identification. I could gleam who I was, who might know me, and what I was called. I was standing in a clearing, having wandered away from the bank where I woke. My clothes were dry, I think. A small blessing.

You were walking the backtrails. You told me, later, that you liked those better. You took the deer paths whenever possible. They branched off from the paved trail and followed the stream until it fed into the nearby river. These paths were choked by undergrowth, at points requiring you to walk sideways between encroaching branches that snagged at clothes and skin alike. It was rough, but mild. Tame enough for children to navigate without undue risk. Not a complete lack of risk, as you’ve told me; death was rare, but not unheard of. My presence there that day was, perhaps, a testament to this.

I found a phone in the pants pockets. It was a time before the normalization of biometrics. Like most new technologies I have been forced to endure, I embraced it slowly and unwillingly at first. Now, I find it a boon. Phone passcodes were inconvenient. I could recall them, sometimes, if the motions were engrained in muscle memory. More often than not, I would be fumbling blind with half-remembered patterns. Being locked out from failed attempts was a familiar roadblock. I didn’t often last long enough to retry. But a fingerprint lock or facial recognition required no memory or effort on my part. The body I inherited was a key in of itself, and for that I learned to be grateful. But this would not be the case for years, so I was left guessing.

I did not hear you or your parents approaching until you were practically on top of me. I had not noticed that the clearing I was standing in was an offshoot of these backtrails. You seemingly emerged from the underbrush out of nowhere. I did not jump, but I was startled. I looked up from the phone (which I would fail to access, and remained to me a useless palm-sized hunk of plastic and circuit boards until I moved on to the next) and my eyes met yours.

I believe you were more shocked than I was. I did not blame you for this. I have seen many things. You had seen far fewer. I suppose I made an interesting vision. A man, alone, dressed for an office job. Standing stock-still in the middle of the woods. I don’t remember what day it was, but I like to think it was during the workday.

I don’t remember what I said to you, but I said something. A greeting is likely. Something quick and simple. An acknowledgement, a subtle reassurance that this was normal. I was meant to be there. I was real and alive, same as you. It bothers me, sometimes, that I can’t remember what my first words to you were. I suppose it does not matter.

You said nothing in reply. One of your parents might’ve given me a perfunctory greeting, maybe, but I know you were silent. You were not rude; you nodded in acknowledgement before continuing on down the path. I believe your silence is what made me remember this meeting. I don’t know if I found it odd, or amusing, or awkward. We made eye contact for less than a moment. You’ve told me that you don’t remember what my face was like, that day, but you rarely remember faces. You remembered the suit, and you remembered your silence.

You told me, when I asked if you recalled this meeting, that your silence was intentional. You were always prone to flights of whimsy. You never truly believed in most of your superstitions, you told me, but you followed them anyways. Just in case. When you saw me there, in the woods, having just woken into a new life, you might’ve seen something in me. You told me that, in the moment we met eyes, you thought of Fae. You recalled tales where odd folk lured humans into the woods, magic creatures who could command another by speaking their name. And so, you were silent, unwilling to speak a word in case I were to steal the voice from your throat. It was a misguided fear, but not altogether inaccurate. I would, one day, steal it from you. Your silence would not have stopped me.

The first death was quiet. There was, of course, nothing to be done. There never was. Not really.

It was slow, and dark, and lonely. And I was afraid. I do not remember much of my childhood (if you can call it a childhood), but I remember the fear. I cannot recall exactly how I died, that first time. Only that it was quiet. I think, maybe, I had fallen somewhere. I remember the pain; a broken leg, maybe? I don’t know. I just know that it hurt.

I think, maybe, I had lost a lot of blood. I felt distant. Light-headed. Maybe that makes the memory harder to grasp. Maybe it wasn’t the blood; maybe it was my newness. It was, of course, my first. I had nothing to compare it to. I did not know what to expect.

I did, however, know that I was going to die. It was a feeling, an instinctual urge, more than it was conscious fact. I did not recognize the knowledge; I did not know what dying was or what it meant. I remember the dread. I remember seeing the ending approach. I remember thinking something along the lines of “at least this will be over.” I did not know, back then, that an ending does not mean it was over. It would, of course, never end. Not really.

I would, eventually, grow comfortable in the feeling. I know now that it will keep happening, over and over and over again. The fear receded. It never left, I think, but it is smaller now. Or, maybe, not smaller, but familiar. It is a stranger turned old friend. But I am still always afraid.

I don’t usually remember the lives I’ve lived after they end. I’m never there for long. You’ve asked me, before, about my lives. I tried to tell you as much as I can remember. I told you about the glimpses of the past I could retain, even when the rest was lost to time. I told you about the people I met, the people I was, the places I’ve seen. But it rarely feels like I’m talking about my own memories. I can remember my lives before they end, but I only ever feel like myself when I’m dying. The rest is just context, nothing more.

I’m always given time, before the end. It’s short, but still there. It makes the slow deaths both easier and harder to deal with. Starvation and illness and lingering injury means that I am rarely able to do much beyond dying. I know how to die. It is easy. The quick deaths are different. I begin with the knowledge I will die without the evidence of it. I know it will happen, but I do not know how or when or why. It is a different breed of fear. This one is not a friend of mine. I still do not know how to hold it. I think I may never know.

The quick deaths, however, mean I have time before the dying part. Normalcy, if you can call it that. I can live without pain. I can think without the dragging of a mind desperate for blood, for air, for rest. You liked me best when I was not dying. I still don’t know how to feel about that.

We met for the first time next to a creek.

It was mid-summer. You were young- not quite a child, but young. High School, perhaps? I’m not certain. It was one moment out of millions. They blend together. Time meant little to me then, and it matters little to me still. I did not know the importance until much later.

I was new, again. This was normal. I don’t remember what my name was, in that life. I don’t remember who I was before this, or who I would become next. It is not important. But I do remember the circumstance of our meeting. I had awoken in what I believed to be wilderness. I would soon learn that I was much closer to civilization than I had assumed; it was a park, a stretch of trees with scattered hiking trails. It was small. Walking in any direction would likely lead to pavement or cornfield within an hour or so. The main path was a wide, flat asphalt. I was not on this path, and neither were you.

I had woken at the stream’s bank. The water was low. I don’t know what brought the body there, before I became it. I did not question it. I rarely did. I was wearing a suit, and a suitcase laid on the ground nearby. I was unblemished, and so was the suit. I found this bizarre, but nothing of particular interest. I had awoken in odder dress in much stranger lands than this. The novelty had worn off long ago. I knew immediately that this would be a quick death. The body was healthy and moving and alive. I think I was trying to work out who I was. Standard procedure. Waking was made easier with the modern convention of identification. I could gleam who I was, who might know me, and what I was called. I was standing in a clearing, having wandered away from the bank where I woke. My clothes were dry, I think. A small blessing.

You were walking the backtrails. You told me, later, that you liked those better. You took the deer paths whenever possible. They branched off from the paved trail and followed the stream until it fed into the nearby river. These paths were choked by undergrowth, at points requiring you to walk sideways between encroaching branches that snagged at clothes and skin alike. It was rough, but mild. Tame enough for children to navigate without undue risk. Not a complete lack of risk, as you’ve told me; death was rare, but not unheard of. My presence there that day was, perhaps, a testament to this.

I found a phone in the pants pockets. It was a time before the normalization of biometrics. Like most new technologies I have been forced to endure, I embraced it slowly and unwillingly at first. Now, I find it a boon. Phone passcodes were inconvenient. I could recall them, sometimes, if the motions were engrained in muscle memory. More often than not, I would be fumbling blind with half-remembered patterns. Being locked out from failed attempts was a familiar roadblock. I didn’t often last long enough to retry. But a fingerprint lock or facial recognition required no memory or effort on my part. The body I inherited was a key in of itself, and for that I learned to be grateful. But this would not be the case for years, so I was left guessing.

I did not hear you or your parents approaching until you were practically on top of me. I had not noticed that the clearing I was standing in was an offshoot of these backtrails. You seemingly emerged from the underbrush out of nowhere. I did not jump, but I was startled. I looked up from the phone (which I would fail to access, and remained to me a useless palm-sized hunk of plastic and circuit boards until I moved on to the next) and my eyes met yours.

I believe you were more shocked than I was. I did not blame you for this. I have seen many things. You had seen far fewer. I suppose I made an interesting vision. A man, alone, dressed for an office job. Standing stock-still in the middle of the woods. I don’t remember what day it was, but I like to think it was during the workday.

I don’t remember what I said to you, but I said something. A greeting is likely. Something quick and simple. An acknowledgement, a subtle reassurance that this was normal. I was meant to be there. I was real and alive, same as you. It bothers me, sometimes, that I can’t remember what my first words to you were. I suppose it does not matter.

You said nothing in reply. One of your parents might’ve given me a perfunctory greeting, maybe, but I know you were silent. You were not rude; you nodded in acknowledgement before continuing on down the path. I believe your silence is what made me remember this meeting. I don’t know if I found it odd, or amusing, or awkward. We made eye contact for less than a moment. You’ve told me that you don’t remember what my face was like, that day, but you rarely remember faces. You remembered the suit, and you remembered your silence.

You told me, when I asked if you recalled this meeting, that your silence was intentional. You were always prone to flights of whimsy. You never truly believed in most of your superstitions, you told me, but you followed them anyways. Just in case. When you saw me there, in the woods, having just woken into a new life, you might’ve seen something in me. You told me that, in the moment we met eyes, you thought of Fae. You recalled tales where odd folk lured humans into the woods, magic creatures who could command another by speaking their name. And so, you were silent, unwilling to speak a word in case I were to steal the voice from your throat. It was a misguided fear, but not altogether inaccurate. I would, one day, steal it from you. Your silence would not have stopped me.

majestic waterfalls of the north fork of the chicago river

the perilous scraggly peaks of rockford

city state of chicago, viewed from the placid waters of lake michigan

illinois beach state park sand dunes

the joyously colorful rolling hills of terre haute

shawnee national forest

lower wacker drive

the state’s great capital, springfield

the rambling eastern border along the mississippi river