clay urn resting under my palm and seeing the woman smile down while patting the urn, her face contorted for a moment into one of pity and partial disgust. “You were holding onto this.” It seemed she was mocking me. My brother’s voice would interrupt.
“Traitor.”
Numbly tracing a thumb over the clay urn and finally registering the shouts that surrounded me, I suddenly felt very tired. My vision started to narrow, my eyes starting to close, one blink, then a second, almost asleep. A rough jolt sent pain up my arm to my shoulder and I glanced at the offender, circular wire rimmed glasses, were the first objects I had to identify the stranger.
“Hold it, don’t fall asleep yet, we can’t have our prisoner dying in their sleep.” It felt as if he were chiding me.
“Anthony! Don’t be so rude!” The woman from earlier said, offended on my behalf. My mind going into limbo as they, my captors placed my singed body onto a stretcher into a vehicle, the nauseating smell of a hospital assaulting my nose.
A mobile hospital that screamed, had a flashing rotating red light on top, and everything shook. Prisoner. Glancing at my brother’s urn the small whispers of traitor reverberating from it caressing the clay urn, the rough surface sending small jolts of pain into my fingertips.
“Brother.” I would rasp out, cracked lips and singed skin made talking painful. “Miserable curse.” Lips curving into a half smile going into a trance where the lights and colors of the present world would pass by and a distant feeling would invade my senses.
Hours, minutes, seconds and the vehicle stopped, doors opening, the smell of gunpowder and oil all over.
“You may sleep now.” Anthony, the man called Anthony, when did he get here? Has he always been there? Nevertheless, I was tired. It was time to sleep.
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