Torn Pages | A Zodiac Story

1. HIRAETH

hiraeth (n.) Welsh — homesickness for a home you can never return to. 

   He was dead. He knew that much.

   A sickening replay of the moment raced through his mind over and over, stained in his memories like red wine. Over and over, the shouting, the unforgettable sound of crunching bones- ay Dios, his bones, those were his-

   All that was constant, all he could process was the pain slowly seeping away from his body, through his veins and exhaled out with his breath. Fighting the irresistible urge to believe he had survived the impact, he forced himself to squeeze out the thought he was most scared to face. Was he in heaven or hell? Embarrassingly, he let out a terrified dry sob.

   Each second sent a wave of the unmistakable taste of blood flooding through his mouth, although he was sure he wasn't actually bleeding from anywhere. In fact, he realized as his eyes finally came into focus, he looked pristine. Propped against the itchy trunk of a tree, tiny rocks getting into the folds of his clothes, he was amazed to see his army frock coat without a single stain or speck, no blood or dusty tarnish. Even the Mexican coat of arms on his shoulder, once falling apart from constant exposure to the elements, was suddenly in one piece, colors as bright as the day he got it.

   He wasn't sure how to think about Death dressing its victims pretty.

   With shaking hands, he picked up his shako helmet, softly caressing the feathers with calloused fingertips before placing it back on his head. Wiggling the brim until it fit right, his focus was now finally on his surroundings. If this was hell, it seemed too peaceful. If it was heaven, he would have expected to feel much... lighter. Instead, his body felt stubbornly alive, even as the last few moments of his mangled form flooded his thoughts.

   Although the sun was high in the sky, the wind brought cold air gushing past, making him shiver as he pulled his frock coat closer to his body. It was dim and dreary, about to rain. Heaven or hell? His pain had almost completely ceased, only a dull ringing in his ears remaining. Astonished, he put a hand in front of his face, flexing his fingers carefully. Heaven or hell? The taste of blood grew stronger.

   No angel had come to embrace him, and Lucifer had yet to incinerate him. He was seemingly stuck in a limbo, free of physical pain. But why?

   Stand up! His mind yelled at him. ¿Qué chingados? Stand up! What lumpy, bumpy, heavy mass of a body he was. I am Lieutenant Colonel Luis Lorenzo Lúz Padilla. I can stand up. I know how to stand up. I do it all the time. Are you 5? Look around, investigate, do something useful!

   Gripping his shako with one hand and the tree trunk with another, he grunted, getting first onto his knees, then, slowly but steadily, planting one foot and another onto the ground. Spotting his sabre on the ground, he grabbed it, stabbing the point into the ground to lean on it for leverage. He was ashamed of how tiring the simple act was- once he was standing upright, he heaved and huffed, exhausted from the action.

   "Parque..." he mumbled, voice raw as he looked around, astonished. A park, surrounded by domesticated trees and well-tamed flower bushes, a dirt path winding through it all. In the distance, large, gray, ugly buildings loomed over the horizon. The air smelled like rain, a heavy mist clouding the air. Was he... alive? By some grace of God? Yes... yes, maybe he was put here to recover, and Igancio and Emil and- and everyone! They were going to be right back, just getting some water from the well. Yes, that sounded pleasantly plausible. It must be! He shakily let out a half-hearted laugh.