My flesh has been whittled away by time and decay as has my companions: Agnes and Anne. There are others here, but I do not know the fictitious names they were given. None of us remember what we were christened. Our real names taken from us along with our clothes and possessions. Funny, that I can't recall what letter it began with or the sound of it on my own or my mother's tongue, for I did have that: parents and siblings; a well-thought of family, unless I'm lying to myself. Who can say when all are gone? I only survive, as do Agnes and Anne, because my bones, once entombed, were disturbed and now I cannot rest.
not come to me in death because I hadn't died of natural causes and
so a part of me lingered, but upon being dug up, the core of me was
forced back into my skeleton like a smoker taking a desperate drag on
a used cigarette. Greedily inhaling the nicotine and coolly exhaling
a wisp of curled smoke. It was a shock, I can tell you, re-entering
my skull like that, through my sunken left eye socket.
you may be pondering how I'm able to communicate in modern language?
Well, I shall tell you...I'm using a bored writer. She was just
sitting here, not doing anything when I found her, although her mind
was certainly busy. She seemed to be in-between stories which was
perfect, and of course for my story to be understood it needed to be
somebody who could translate my old-fashioned colloquialisms. And
she's kind of quirky. A blue stocking but more than that. Scholarly,
but edgy. Not much to look at, but then looks change and fade, and
carry the least importance.
this vessel, I now talk to you.
dug up from their tomb were lavishly re-dressed in such fine
splendour, the likes of which I'd never seen in my earthly life. My
family were humble. Poor. We belonged to the lower classes. We made
our own clothes or wore hand-me-downs, and could not afford burial
ground, hence my suffocating chamber. Suffocation you might think is
a word for a life brutally and intentionally extinguished, but I
assure even though physically I was dead, my soul felt choked
underground. It was strange to feel so shut in after living above,
and my soul could still feel all that a human could only these
sensations came in crashing waves. One on top of another, the sort
that a modern surfer would die for now.
for I keep losing my thread. It's been so many years...more years
than you could possibly imagine.
As I was
saying, dug up, I was re-released but weighed down with jewels:
precious gems in my eye sockets and a gold crown. My skull felt like
a pebble being thrown to the bottom of a dry well. Unbelievably
light, yet mystifyingly heavy. I still wasn't free from my painful
early death and now there was this humiliation. And because the
essence of who I once was was still attached to this broken body, it
meant I wasn't privy to confidential information. I hadn't
transcended completely. I had been adrift...unable to access other
tell you where I was displayed or to which country I was sent to,
although I do believe it was somewhere in Europe, but I can tell you
who I was renamed for: Anastasia, a student of the Apostles Peter and
Paul who was tortured under the reign of Nero. A falsehood of course,
but then I was in no position to disclaim it. A couple of centuries
may have passed before that trickery was discovered; I honestly
couldn't tell you as souls have no defined concepts of time. But what
a scandal when it was!
the here and now: dishonoured. A fake! In a cold, damp and dark
storage room with numerous others. No rest, no escape. My skull
separated from my skeletal frame, as are Agnes's and Anne's.
Picture Credit: Pyramid of Skulls, Paul Cezanne