The Risen One by R. Michael
Everyone fears death. We look to prolong life at any cost, yet the sting of mortality is inevitable. When my time came, I accepted it. For weeks I endured an unknown sickness that left me bedridden. Each labored breath, the inability to move, and the toll my suffering took on my loved ones made clinging onto life less appealing. At one point, the agony ceased, and my spirit lifted from my body, but then it snapped back.
I awoke lying in a wooden coffin. At first, I thought I’d been buried alive, but my pulse didn’t elevate while the fear of entombment pummeled my mind. I punched through the lid, not feeling any pain, and my lungs didn’t beg for air as I wormed to the surface. Once I poked my head out of the dirt, I gasped out of instinct. I looked around the cemetery, half expecting a grave neighbor to reanimate too, but none did.
I shuffled home, half in a daze. When I stepped through the front door, my wife screeched at the sight of my rigor mortis-riddled face. Before I could reassure her, my son, John, came at me with an axe, accusing me of being a demon. He almost parted my head from my shoulders as I turned away. By a stroke of luck, he missed, and I fled while he poised for a second strike.
Since that day, I’ve lived in a cave five miles beyond the borders of my village with only rats as company. I cannot taste food or drink, my dearest Gail fears me, and then there is the crushing loneliness. Maybe I should have let John end my miserable existence.
For sixty days, I lingered in my corner of Earth’s bowels, wondering how long my torment would endure. Last night, I peered outside to watch the sun set, debating whether to risk a nocturnal walk and see something other than the cave’s walls. I doubted folks would spot my condition in the dark. Then again, one mistake could cause fearful locals to force me out of my home. Sighing, I ended my deliberation, threw on a hooded cloak, and stepped into the moonlight. A gust of wind blasted my face, yet I couldn’t feel its winter bite, something I once despised.
While I wandered, I thought about my new life, wondering if this limbo was supposed to be a reward or punishment. I glanced down at the rotting flesh on my hands. Each day the skin deteriorated further, yet movement remained unhindered. My feet fared somewhat better, though my toes darkened and pruned. I shuddered, pondering if I would continue to deteriorate until I was little more than bones.
“Hello?” Someone shouted, startling me.
I shook my head and kept moving.
“Please I need help!”
I paused, chewing on my lip.
“Can you hear me? I’m pinned under my wagon, and my horse bolted.”
I gritted my teeth, tempted to ignore his pleas. He said something else, but it was muffled by a gust of wind. However, I could hear his desperation. Hurrying to the voice, I found a man beneath a cobbled together cart. I curled my fingers around the rough wood, heaving it off the man with surprising ease. He scrambled to his feet.
“Are you okay?” I asked the man.
“Yes, just a little bruised, I think. How did you …” His brow contorted when the moonlight caught my face. “William?” He breathed.
I said nothing and turned away.
A few steps later, the man yelled after me. “No, wait!”
I stopped, turning slowly back toward him.
“Thank you for helping me.” The man followed up. “If you weren’t out here, I might have died.”
I cocked my head, feeling my brow wrinkle. “Don’t you fear me?”
“Not after you saved my life, but I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. You always had a heart for others.”
“You seem to know me, but I don’t recognize you.” The words spilled out before I put much thought into them.
“I’m Tommy. I worked at the mill with you, remember?” His face scrunched.
I shook my head, not recalling the man or ever working at a mill. Realizing I was forgetting my former life sent chills through my body.
“Anyway, after your incident, John raved to anyone who’d listen that your body had been claimed by a demon.”
A weight pressed against my chest. “Well, I’m not sure what I am.” I said in little more than a whisper.
“You saved my life, so I don’t believe you can be a demon. Whatever you have become, William, I’m forever grateful. Take care.”
“Thanks, Tommy. You too.” I smiled and continued along the road. Maybe I’ve found my new purpose: keeping watch over my community. My eyes rotated heavenward. I don’t know what power pulled me from the grave or why I was chosen, but maybe through helping others I can find peace.
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R. Michael lives in rural Minnesota with his family. His works have appeared in “Dark Recesses,” “Twenty-two Twenty-eight,” “Land Beyond the World Magazine,” and other publications. He enjoys reading, gaming, and walking with his border collie.
