"What Was Mine" 1

Maybe I have a dim memory of hitting the ground hard like a shit-smeared cannonball.  Maybe I remember dozing like the blind, slimy pile of excrement I was, the beast that birthed me nuzzling me curiously, my brain barely awake enough to notice the all-over skin burn that tingled and needled.  Maybe I’ve just convinced myself that I remember.  Regardless, the first proper memory that I can lay unquestioned claim to is waking up on a canvas cot in a brown room, a dirty-faced boy rubbing a rag on me that had been soaked in something foul-smelling and yellow.

His eyes widened as he saw mine open.  I tried to speak.  My mouth was clammy and tasted like grass and vomit.  I blew a speechless spit-bubble.  The burn in my throat was fiery and deep.  I felt the pain in all my holes, even the ones in the coarse wool short pants I was wearing.

The boy dipped the rag in a bucket, wrung it out, and slapped it on my thighs.  Whatever nasty shit he was spreading on me, it soothed my raw skin, but he wasn’t working it into my nose or my asshole; hence the sting.

I cleared my throat and worked my mouth silently again, trying to force out at least a whisper.  The boy leaned over me.  He was around 11, and the top of his head was a lot larger than the bottom.  Also, one of his eyes wasn’t right.  “Your throat isn’t gonna be able to make words for a while,” he said, in an accent that spoke of isolation, hard living and illiteracy.  “I’ll bring in some special soup to help with that,” he said with a mild smile.  I looked pointedly at the disgusting rag as he moved it up to my chest.  “That’s crone’s balm,” he said.  “Smells like death, but it numbs the pain…you’d be screaming from the burning otherwise.”  How long would this all last, I thought.  “About a week,” he said, anticipating my question.  “After that, everything will still hurt, but you should be able to handle it.”  He ducked his head closer to my ear.  “My name’s Osef,” he said shyly.  I nodded at him, then, exhausted from the effort of even that level of communication, sunk my head back into the pillow and let oblivion come.

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