He is nameless and ageless, a horror to behold.
I came across him this afternoon when exploring a wide farmer’s porch which wraps around one of the many wings. He sat in a rocking chair, lazily moving himself with one foot. I saw the bandage on his head, and I was not certain as to whether he was living or dead.
I still cannot place him.
By all rights, the man should be dead.
I greeted him, but he did not speak. He merely nodded, the bandage about his head fluttered as he moved. The man motioned toward a chair close to him, and I took it, wary of my surroundings and the stranger.
After several minutes of silence, I asked him if he was well. The man smiled and shook his head, pointing toward his bandaged eye.
When I asked him if it was bad, he grinned and turned to face me. I didn’t call for him to stop as he brought his hand to bandage, nor did I bid him let go of it when he grasped the edge.
I lost my voice when he brought the bandage up, and I could observe the wound.
His eye was missing, and there was a barren tunnel which passed through his brain to the back of his skull. I could glimpse the afternoon sun through the filmy gauze of his bandage.
His wound was rough and red, blood trickling out as his mouth moved silently. It took only a moment for me to recognize the words, and I nodded.
He smiled, lowered the gauze, and returned to rocking.
I stood up and left him, his muted words emblazoned in my mind.
Memento Mori.
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