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[spikewrites]

The Wolf of Belnorde

19 Vairmoon 1684 NH

Lord Vaulker sees to pressing business... personally.

Vardeau hobbled along the dark slicked streets of Belnorde, his cloak clutched tightly around his broad shoulders. He’d been forced to close up late due to a surprise visit from a Council member; while the commission paid a great deal, it stranded him in the rain late at night. Oh, how he longed for the fire of his hearth! It was only another block until he’d reach his home and family, and all the comforts both would provide.

The carved granite steps led up to a large door of mahogany, set into the marble walls of his estate. Goldsmithing was a profitable business indeed, doubly so in the largest aeroport in western Fordemas, and as such it afforded the D’Armani family fittingly lavish accommodations. A calloused hand reached for and turned the tarnished handle, then retracted quite suddenly.

The door to Vardeau’s home was already unlocked, and ajar at that. Chills colder than the rains upon his back rushed up his spine.

Wringing out his cloak just outside the doorway, Vardeau cautiously meandered into the common room. The hearth was lit, its warmth only a partial comfort at present, but there were no lights on in the adjacent corridors or dining room. He’d had no need of it before, but Vardeau didn’t spare a second thought to pull the flintlock out from the compartment on the mantle. Three soft clicks echoed through the dark, empty halls as his thumb pulled back the hammer.

Vardeau’s calls into the darkened hallways were met with silence. A light at the end of the corridor beckoned him; his study. Each footstep seemed to thunder throughout the home in the black silence; at last, the door! Vardeau pointed his pistol into the room, and followed the door as it creaked open. Seeming empty, he stepped inside, and nearly pulled the trigger when the door slammed shut behind him.

Two armed muscular men--an olive-skinned khazu and a hulking Geld--stood beside the door, their eyes daring Vardeau to fire. And he had a mind to, were it not for the voice from his chair; refined, yet subtly venomous, and worst of all, a voice Vardeau knew.

“Master D’Armani. You’re twenty minutes late.”

“Lord Vaulker!” Vardeau disengaged the hammer, stuffing his flintlock into his belt. “I was soon to come to you about the debt, I swear!”

“Excuses do not become you, my friend. Do not try and wield them against me.” Vaulker swung about in the high-backed chair behind Vardeau’s desk, fingers peaked before a cold glare. The raghan-ka’s gaunt, scarred face was framed by thick locks of bristly black fur, his ears pointed forward and his long nose scrunched. A moment of met eyes between Vardeau and Vaulker froze the courven’s veins, and he could feel his face pale.

“I am honest, sir. First thing tomorrow morning, I swear, I was to come to the cathedral with recompense! Please, forgive my delay!”

“I did forgive it, the first two times you pleaded for an extension. My patience is as thin as I assume your wallet must be, if you have taken this long to pay me back. Thus, I decided I’d come to you this time.”

“Please, milord, have mercy!”

“I possess naught else.” Vaulker moved only his eyes, spying a framed family portrait upon the wall. Vardeau chilled further as a thin smile curled behind the raghan’s fingers. “Nice family you have.”

“No! No, no please, leave them out of this!”

“I am afraid that airship has left port, Master D’Armani. Rest assured, your wife and children are quite safe. And they will remain so, if you can repay your debt. Now.”

“I...” Vardeau’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an answer that obviously wasn’t present. He’d hoped Vaulker would have forgotten about the loan; it was a whole year and a half ago when he’d taken it! Alas, it was Vardeau who had forgotten, and now he was presented with a harsh reminder.

“Yes, Master D’Armani? Were you about to say something?” Vaulker waited for a response; none came. “Very well; allow me to present to you my final mercy. You have precisely twenty-four hours to come up with my money. You will deliver it to the Western Aeroport by this time tomorrow evening. By the way, there is interest; with as long as it has been, I believe thirty percent is fair? That’s including the prior interest, from your last appeal.”

“Thirty percent?! Along with the rest? I cannot possibly--”

“We can resolve this now, if you wish. Urglak and Jarlam would be happy to oblige.” Vaulker snapped his fingers, and Vardeau flinched in anticipation of what would soon follow.

“No! No, I--I’ll have the money, Lord Vaulker! Tomorrow night, Western Aeroport! You have my word!”

“That is precisely why I am not convinced.” Vaulker stood up swiftly from Vardeau’s desk, striding to the door with a perfect gait. Urglak and Jarlam followed, snickering darkly and shutting the door to the study behind them.

Vardeau fell to his knees only when he was sure his visitors had left, breathing hard with wide eyes staring at the floor. With the added interest, the total was now well above ten thousand rigals; a king’s ransom and then some. Tears flowed freely into his braided beard, clouding his view of his family’s portrait.

Truly, he was doomed.

[spikewrites]

The Potential for Potential

6 Guinmoon

After an intense siege against the city, an aging historian and his assistant reflect upon those at the heart of its defense.

It was late morning when Kari returned to the suite in the Golden Sands; bruised in body, but not in spirit. The pale-skinned darkling rapped upon the door, opening only after the muffled “come in, come in” from within gave approval.

Fazron turned in his seat, poring over several old tomes and scrolls as always. The aging courven smiled with a nod to Kari.

“I am overjoyed to see you safe, Madame Mirone.”

“And I you. Did you get any rest? You’ve been in your books for days.”

The historian chuckled, shaking his head and returning to his current object of study: a weathered, ominous-looking book. “You and I both know I require little rest.”

“Old age doesn’t make you immortal, sir.”

“It surely feels it, some days.” Fazron gave the darkling a knowing wink; Kari rolled her eyes with a smile, taking a seat across the table.

“You figure out anything about the Eye?”

“Only that it is, surely, the one and only Heavens’ Eye.”

“Do you think that... Perhaps...?”

Fazron shot a grave glance across the table and over his magnifying lens. “No. Not without further evidence. I’ll not chase myths in my twilight years.”

“Understood, sir.”

“However... I would like to maintain correspondence with our recent hires.”

“The mercenaries? I doubt they’re sticking around.”

“Nor would I wish them to. A group such as that is best suited to venturing as far and wide as they are capable. I’d rather they pursue their own goals for their own gain, than mine for mere coin.”

Kari frowned down at the table with a rhythmically tapping finger. “And if their goal is mere coin?”

“I assure you it isn’t.”

With a hum of thought, Kari stood up from the table. “I’d best return to the infirmary; there’s a lot of help needed.”

“Oh, leaving so soon? ...Well, do return, please. I so adore your company.” Fazron gave his assistant a warm smile beneath bushy white whiskers, and Kari returned the smile. On her way towards the door, however, she paused, leaning on the doorframe.

“...Just tell me one thing, sir.”

“Hm?”

The darkling turned back into the room. “What do you see in them? Those mercenaries.”

For the first time in a very long time, Fazron sat in silence. Finally, looking up to Kari Mirone, he answered.

“I see potential in them, Madame Mirone. The potential for, well, potential. That is why I entrusted them to recover the Eye. And I am positive I can entrust them with more in the future.”

Kari nodded her satisfaction with pursed lips, closing the door gently on her way out. The old historian was strange at times, but his intuition was rarely wrong. Kari would need to, as oft in the past, trust that intuition.

[spikewrites]

Change of Plans

2 Guinmoon

In some unknown, remote location, dark forces conspire in light of recent events.

“Arith, I--”

“Ssejinw, Reuben! Word has reached our ears already of your failure.”

The word stung, leaving a horrible taste in the vampire’s mouth. It only served to fuel his existing hatred and anger.

“It was no failure! Merely a disruption. The spice has been perfected; everything is proceeding as planned.”

“Is it? You abandoned your operation. You have left interlopers with vital clues. You have left witnesses--alive. So very unlike you, Reuben. You’ve grown plythu in your complacency.”

“I am NOT weak! Far from it!”

“Then explain how easily you were bested! How you allowed them to even challenge you. Your arrogance shall be your undoing, hemata.”

Reuben had no retort. His master shifted his weight on his throne, his voice growing icy.

“Heed us, Reuben. Further failure shall not be tolerated. Fortunately for you, this is a minor setback. Make contact with Zadazonta, and begin transporting the pescis. You shall then wait for our command. Do nothing until we command it. Do we make ourselves clear?”

“Axun, arith.”

“Bensvelk. We dismiss you from our court.”

Reuben’s flight eastwards was bittersweet, and consumed with thoughts of revenge. Nobody insults Reuben von Kireger and lives for very long.

[spikewrites]

Under New Management

30 Aurmoon 1694 NH

“Alright, enough, please! I will tell you all I know.”

Benson adjusted his tie as best he could, looking into the eyes of the four adventurers. Young eyes, unfettered by the horrors the butler had witnessed. Soon enough, they would see for themselves; they would see the monster behind the illusion that was the Grand Regalia Hotel.

25 Years Earlier

8 Tennmoon 1669 NH

Calitian imported black coffee, two lumps of sugar and three-quarter cups of milk. Exactly one and a half strawberry scones. Six slices of Lorean red apple, with a small dish of honey. All of it was to be delivered at precisely ten o’clock at night, set upon the corner of the dining table. Benson had Master Gardson’s evening meal down to a science, as he did everything else. There were no servants so meticulous, so precise, as Benson, not even in the courts of the High King. The tedium of his work was of no concern; he excelled in serving, and in turn, delighted in it.

It was nearly ten o’clock as Benson made his way up to the 3rd floor, where the Master’s penthouse was located. Rounding the corner and marching down the long corridor, Benson silently prayed that Mercedes had stayed asleep this time. He’d received quite the admonishment from the Master the last time the butler’s daughter had seen fit to decorate the first floor west wing corridor in various paints.

One minute before ten, waiting outside the Master’s door, Benson heard a sound. To hear anything at this time of night on the third floor was unnatural. But he would not sway from his duty; ten o’clock exactly, not a minute before or after.

But when a blood-curdling scream followed by a muffled gurgle came from behind the door, Benson could not wait that one minute. Swiftly kicking down the double doors, tray still expertly balanced in hand, the butler gazed upon the horrifying scene.

Bathed in moonlight, Master Gardson’s twitching body was held off the ground by a tall, slim man with long black hair, pale skin, and deep burgundy robes. The intruder had his teeth sunk deeply into the Master’s neck, as thick rivulets of blood streamed from the wound. Benson’s meticulous ways melted away in terror, and the tray slipped from his hand with a crash.

The vampire, alerted to the presence of another, pulled himself from Gardson’s neck, blood dripping from the corners of a twisted grin. Gardson was dropped to the floor unceremoniously, and the vampire plucked a white handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the blood from his chin.

“And you would be the butler. Forgive me, I was just getting myself acquainted with your master.”

“Y-You monster!” Benson turned for the door, only for it to slam in his face. He was trapped with the vampire, who cackled maliciously behind him.

“Master, now. Unless you wish to share this man’s fate, you now serve me.”

The butler turned back to the vampire, leaning against the door for support. “What do you want? From me? From this establishment?”

“This hotel is now mine. Everyone within these walls, is now mine. I have a need for all of you, and you will help me.”

“Never!”

“Then I shall have no choice but to feast upon your daughter, and force you to watch.”

“How do you know of--?!”

“That is not the question you should be asking.” The vampire casually seated himself in the Master’s chair by the fireplace, crossing one long leg over the other with vile grace. “Perhaps you should introduce yourself, first? We shall be working quite closely together, now.”

The butler summoned what small reserves of courage remained, his voice shaking. “I am Benson... sir.”

“Very good. I am Reuben von Krieger, and I am now Master of this hotel. We have much work to do, Mister Benson.”

The horrid laughter of von Krieger would echo in Benson’s mind forever, and from that first moment, he could feel his limbs pulled by puppet strings. He, and every other living soul with the Grand Regalia Hotel, were just that: puppets, at the whim of monstrous intent.

And every night, Benson dreamed of the day when some brave soul could cut the strings.

[spikewrites]

The Rat and the Bard, Pt. 4

1 Guinmoon

I've sent word ahead to an old friend to get Pavol the rest of the way. Danlor isn't kind to qaravani like myself. They'll ignore Pavol for the most part, but I want to get back to Qarid.

"Who is friend?"

"Vardner, a good man I've worked with in the past."

"He is sing too?"

Zigo laughed with a shake of his head. "Not on his life, adiqo. But he knew Grease too, so he'll take good care of you for me."

Pavol stepped in front of Zigo on the forest path, a solemn tone to his voice. "Why you leave?"

The bard didn't have an easy answer, scrunching his brow as his mind searched for one that the morik would understand.

"It's... Hume lands aren't good for my health, Pavol. I need to go back to the Line, where people don't care how tall you are or what you wear."

"I do not get."

"Long story, adiqo. Basically, humes think all zejars are little skeevy swindlers that try to seduce coin from their purses. Makes for awkward conversations."

"I do not get."

The bard sighed with a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it, adiqo."

"Am I interrupting something, Lucky?"

Zigo and Pavol turned to look off the path, to a blonde-haired muscular man leaning against a tree with a wry smirk. Vardner pushed himself off the trunk, stepping onto the path and resting a hand on a battleaxe at his belt.

"Glad you could make it on short notice, Bash."

"My pleasure; I don't forget old friends. Who's your new one?"

"Name is Pavol."

Vardner crossed his arms with an appraising nod. "Lucky, you said this is Grease's little brother?"

"Zi, but this one's got half a spine. He stabbed two humes to death the other day."

"Two? By his lonesome?" The man gave Pavol another look, now with a grin. "You'll be useful to some people, I think."

"I useful? Really?"

"Of course, adiqo. Red seemed to think so."

"Who's Red?"

Zigo grinned with a wink. "Oh, I think you'd like her, Bash. Fiery red-headed Elian that can crush a man's skull in her armpit."

Vardner let loose a chuckle. "I'm in love already. That why you said bring the rat to the Ellies on the border?"

"And give them this letter." Zigo produced Awen's letter with a flourish, handing it to Vardner. "Pavol's just coming off of the poppy, and was about to get caught by Dannies in Mina Garvesta. Red and her friends slipped him out before the blues came by, but with the promise that he works with the rebels."

"I see... Fair enough. He'd make a fine addition to the Vagabonds, though."

"No dice, Bash. I promised Red I'd get the rat to Elia."

A blonde eyebrow raised down at Zigo. "Since when do you keep your promises?"

The bard opened his mouth to retort, but paused, glancing down at the ground. Vardner hummed and pursed his lips, pocketing away the letter and gesturing to Pavol.

"C'mon, Pavol. We've got another week to go before we get you to the border."

"Thank you, big man."

"Please, you can call me Vardner." The man looked back to Zigo, smiling and offering a hand. "Lucky... You be careful."

Zigo grinned and took three of Vardner's fingers in a firm shake. "You too, Bash."

"You owe me one."

"What?!"

"You forget that shaking hands is sealing a business transaction? You owe me one now!"

Zigo could still be heard shouting Zejarian profanities into the woods, long after Vardner and Pavol had left, laughing just as loudly.

[spikewrites]

The Rat and the Bard, Pt. 3

30 Aurmoon

We need to stop in town for supplies. My first pick wouldn’t be Corenton, but you play the cards you’re dealt.

Zigo and Pavol made their way through one of many alleys in the shadow of the High Cathedral. Corenton was home to the Ezralite church, and as such, the law was a bit more tightly enforced here than in most parts of the High Kingdom.

They’d already passed by a few bulletins urging the populace to report any suspicious individuals, and naturally that meant “anybody around 3 feet tall” to humes.

“I am hungry.”

“I know, I know, I’m looking for a place to grab a bite. And a bed. You’d like a bed, right adiqo?”

“Not have bed in... um...” Pavol scrunched his brow, counting on his fingers.

“Well, never you mind that. We’ll have warm food, warm sheets, and warm company before you know it. Should be a place just around the corner.”

Turning the corner brought them into a backlot, and into the company of three humes. Dressed in black with red bandanas around their heads, face, or wrist, it was immediately apparent to Zigo that they weren’t expecting company.

“Oy! Who’re you, then?”

Zigo looked behind him, to the empty alley he and the morik had entered from. “Me?”

“Aye, you. Who’re you and the rat? And why shouldn’t we gut you?”

“Should I answer those in order?”

“Little halfling thinks he’s sharp, do he? Well, I’ve got sharp too!” Three swords were drawn, flashing in the sunlight. Zigo replied by drawing his cutlass, and looking to Pavol and... Pavol was gone.

“Nakar. Pavol, don’t run on me now!”

The three men didn’t bother looking around for the rat. They were intent on Zigo, and the odds were three to one-half. The zejar screwed on a grin and flourished his blade, scrambling for a plan in his mind. The man in the center raised his blade, only to suddenly cry out in pain.

Pavol scrambled onto the man’s shoulders, a craze in his eyes, and planted his dagger deep in the hume’s throat. Another man swung for the morik, but only met air; Pavol was already on the ground and slicing the man’s leg. Zigo went after the baffled third, slicing for the man’s belt and dropping the hume’s trousers. Zigo got a good laugh out of the man’s stumbling away, not realizing that Pavol had proceeded to stab the second man several times in the chest.

“Well, that was fun... Jeza’s lips, adiqo, quit it! He’s dead enough!”

“No touch me! No touch him! NO TOUCH!”

Zigo tore Pavol away from the fresh corpse in a panic, wrenching away the bloodied dagger. “Pavol! Relax! It’s over! Done! Easy!”

Pavol shuddered, breathing hard, and looked up at Zigo; an expression of anger mixed with fear. “Sorry. I... They were going to hit me.”

“Try and remind me not to tick you off. We better get all of that washed off of you, before the guard comes for blood of their own. You alright?”

The morik nodded shakily, and Zigo considered it a good enough answer for the moment.

“Put on a spare shirt and keep your hands in your pockets, adiqo. We’ll go find an inn.”

“Not so hungry anymore.”

[spikewrites]

The Rat and the Bard, Pt. 2

29 Aurmoon

We're crossing into Danlor today, Agaros specifically. I'm just hoping the rat can keep himself together if we're stopped.

"Just keep quiet and let me do the talking, adiqo."

"Okay."

The hike through the foothills wasn't easy nor pleasant, but it was better than trying to deal with border patrols. The Danlor-Qaridian Line border was notorious for its tenacity, as the High Kingdom grew very impatient with Zadazonta's drug trade. Zigo knew that wouldn't stop them, of course.

"Zigo?"

"Yeah?"

"What if they find us?"

"I told you: stay quiet."

"But I have... Um..."

The zejar stopped and turned to Pavol, and choked back a profanity. The morik held two small pouches in an outstretched hand, each marked with the Zadazonta mark of a black half-circle on a horizontal black line.

"Idiot! Why did you keep that?!"

"I pay fifty argal for it!

"And if they find that, we pay with our lives! Get rid of it!"

"Where?"

"Just... Throw it! Throw it over the side, there."

Zigo pointed sharply to the cliffside, and Pavol gave the edge a wary look. Stepping to the ledge, he held out the pouches, his hand quivering... And pulled them back suddenly, staggering away from the edge.

"Can't. No. Need this. I need... If I do not have it, then..."

"You're addicted, Pavol. This is bad for you, and it is going to get you killed someday, adiqo. You need to get rid of it."

"I want to, but..."

Pavol shrunk to the ground, hugging his knees with a wimper. Zigo couldn't help but pity him. Scum that he was to work with the Cartel, but did he truly ever know what he was getting into? It was likely the addiction was only encouraged by Zadazonta, a way to keep the morik on a short leash. Whatever money he made went right back to the Cartel.

Zigo set down his pack with a sigh, crouching down beside Pavol and resting a hand on his shoulder. The morik flinched with a wide-eyed stare at the bard, confused.

"Can't. I need it."

"I know. But I'm going to help you not need it no more, okay?"

A silent stare and a slow blink, but Pavol no longer shivered. "Why?"

"Because when I needed help, I got it. You need it now, so I'm giving it. ...I tell you what."

Zigo stood up, pointing back out over the ledge. "You throw it away, I pay you back double what you paid for it. But you don't buy any more of it. I want you to throw it away; throw away this thing that's keeping you down. You do that, things will only get better. And I'll help you out, every step of the way."

Pavol stared incredulously at the zejar's outstretched hand, and even more so at his warm smile.

"We have a deal, adiqo?"

The morik looked between the pouches on the ground at his feet, and the zejar's hand before him. Zigo kept smiling, kept his hand open. And when he watched Pavol toss the pouches of opium over the cliff, he grinned.

"It's not going to be easy, but I'm here for you, adiqo."

"You keep saying word. What is it?"

"It means 'friend', Pavol. And friends help friends."

[spikewrites]

The Rat and the Bard, Pt. 1

28 Aurmoon

Escorting fugitives across international borders isn't exactly what I had planned for this week. Especially fugitives going through some serious withdrawal.

Zigo dropped another bundle of kindling into the meager fire. The morik hadn't stopped twitching and mumbling since they'd left the city. Zigo could just make out the walls and taller buildings of Mina Garvesta on the eastern horizon in the moonlight. A disappointed frown crossed his face, followed by a soft groan of longing.

"Not happy?"

The bard turned back to Pavol, fidgety and hugging his legs, and screwed on a smile. At least one of them had to keep it together.

"It's just the way of life, adiqo. You gotta go where the wind goes, yeah?"

"I go where Zadazonta says. Or they kill me."

"Oho, not anymore. Now you go where that fiery red-haired lass with the axe said." The bard lounged back on his rock with a grin. "Or you can run when I go to sleep. Nobody's forcing you to do anything no more."

"Run? No, they catch me. Catch me, kill me. I stay with you."

"Not once we cross into Dannyland, my friend. Then it's the Judges you watch out for."

Pavol squeaked in fright, eliciting a snicker from the zejar. Zigo only promised to escort the rat; he didn't say he wouldn't torment him on the way a little bit.

"Relax, morik. ...I already forgot your name."

"Pavol. I am Pavol."

"That's right, yeah. Grease's little brother."

"Gorizka. Yes."

"Dirty, rotten bastard will steal the shoes off your feet without thinking, just to make you buy another pair. Trust the guy with my life."

Pavol gave a confused look at Zigo, pausing in his fidgets for but a moment.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why you trust Gori?"

"Grease?"

"That is not name."

"Nickname, adiqo. We all called him Grease."

"Why?"

"He was slippery, grimy, and after you dealt with him, you got the intense urge to wash your hands."

"No, am asking why you trust him."

"Oh. Well... That is actually a very good question. I mean, do you trust me?"

"Maybe."

"Why's that?"

"...Do not know."

Zigo grinned with a shrug. "Well, there you go then."

The two sat in silence around the crackling flames, watching embers rise into the sky to join the stars. And when they finally laid their heads down to rest, neither one put a dagger under their pillow.

For now, at least, there was trust.

[spikewrites]

One Word

It was Christmas in 2013 when she told me about it. Normally I am against any sort of New Year’s resolutions, but this was different.

“Instead of a resolution, pick a word--one word--and try and live by that word throughout the year.” My aunt is wise about things like this, so I gave it a shot. But I wanted it to mean something substantial; something that, once I have lived my year by the word, it would change my life.

So for the year of 2014, I chose the word Love. I would learn to love--truly, deeply, significantly. Love family, friends, maybe a love interest if it occurred. But above all else, I needed to learn to love myself.

In early 2014, I was brimming with self-hatred. My leaving GameStop, followed by two subsequent jobs of even worse conditions, as well as my struggling in school and life in general... All of it left me consumed in self-loathing. And I’d been hating myself for a long, long time. I was never good enough for myself; even the slightest fault was a dismal failure in my eyes. No matter what support and encouragement was given me, my own criticisms spoke loudest of all. I wanted to change all of that.

It took eight months, two horrible jobs, a failed summer course, and a near-fatal car crash for me to find it in myself to love who I was. I would have died a lonely, hateful, angry young man; I couldn't have that. I recovered from the crash, both in body and spirit, and by year’s end, I had achieved the goal of my word. I found love; not only the love of another, but the love I had denied myself for so long.

For this new year, I chose a new word: Harmony. My life is a tempest of turmoil and chaos, and I was a disorganized mess. I want to find a balance with my surroundings, peace of mind, a clearer focus in my life. Part of me knew this would not occur early in the year.

Indeed, it did not. My first romantic relationship fell apart, and now I am faced with a mountain of procrastinated work for my spring courses. Procrastination especially is an issue that has grown monstrous these past few months; even writing this memoir is further procrastination. But in a way, it is also helping; I acknowledge the problem, and I will strive to rid myself of it.

I chose the word Harmony from, admittedly, a fortune cookie that I got with Chinese takeout a few months back. “Peace comes from within; seek it within yourself.” It serves as my mantra for this year, as I fight to find that peace within me.

The year is a third of the way through; I come to the end of the first act, with two more ahead. I am not where I wished to be, but I am further along than I was before. And every step forward is still forward progress.

Resolutions for New Year’s are shallow, petty, and rarely succeed. Choose a word, and watch it change your life.

[spikewrites]

I’m Still Driving

Two-hundred and fifty-four days.

I was driving home from school yesterday. The air-conditioning in my car isn’t working right now, so I had the window rolled down, my arm resting on the door, one hand on the wheel. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for a drive with the window down.

Then I noticed something. The arm that was resting on the window was the same one bearing those old scars, on the elbow, two-hundred and fifty-four days old. First there was glass and blood, then stitches and scabs, and finally the mended skin, leaving red scars that will always serve to remind me.

And there I was, sticking my elbow out the window, my scars exposed to the world. An invitation--perhaps even a challenge--to the world, to come and take another piece of me. A symbol of defiance, of determination, my way of saying to the world that nothing can stop me.

It was a beautiful thought.

Two-hundred and fifty-four days ago, I could have died. Should have, some might say. I remember being told I was lucky to be alive. Words that hang in the air over me every day. You’re lucky to be alive. You’re lucky. But I don’t see it that way. In my opinion, I did die. I was killed by that truck, dead upon impact, darkness engulfing me in an instant and whisking me away from this mortal coil. In my eyes, I did die. And then, I rose again.

Before I was hit by the truck, had I truly lived? Life was something given freely to all, before I learned how quickly it could be taken away. Life is man’s most precious commodity, something given only once, and removed with but a single mistake. And yet I was given a second chance at it. I was spared my fate, and offered a new beginning, another shot at life. Only then did I see its value.

In just two-hundred and fifty-four days, I have experienced far more love, more loss, more triumph, more despair, more joy, more sorrow, more life than I had in over twenty-two years. It took a confrontation with death for my eyes to open and truly see life.

So I believe I did die in that crash. And before I died, I had not truly lived.

And it was on that Friday afternoon, the sun shining, the window down, the music loud, that I was reminded of this. Such joy to be found in such seemingly small moments as one’s elbow resting out the window. To think that I could live, that I could survive, after all that life had put before me, makes life all the more glorious and worthwhile.

And life continues to throw things in my path, sometimes literally. I nearly hit a deer yesterday. It saw fit to leap across the road just as I approached a stop sign. To be sure it startled me, and for a moment, I was brought back two-hundred and fifty-four days, and I saw death again. But the moment passed. I was alive. No matter what gets thrown in my way, I’m still alive.

Two-hundred and fifty-four days have passed. And I’m still driving.