Last Chapter?

The Wasteland, Winter, Now

It was a fight. It seems over now.

Despite the unbearably cold, the ground is pitted with oozing mud and dark puddles to the horizon. Drifting smoke obscures the waning sun. But night is closing fast with increasing cold and blackness.

A figure lies prostrate on the ground. Indistinguishable from the wasted terrain. No other sign of life, if he counts as that. He couldn't be alive.

He is flat on his back, every inch of his body covered in stinking slime. Only the blood on his chest, arms, and face breaks the overwhelming gray of the field. His right arm is extended awkwardly toward a sword. It lies shattered and beyond his clenched hand.

I don't want to die. But I know I am. I can't remember the fight. Who or what or why. Everything so obscured. My brain defying my attempts at recollection. But I've never felt so defeated. So utterly broken and lost.

Trying to breath. Every smoke-filled breath an agony. My vision narrowing. Blood in my mouth. Blood in my throat. Why am I not dead yet?

I feel, more than see, the presence. Someone is standing over me. Trying to focus my vision, blood trickling into my eyes making it an impossible and painful task. I can't tell if it's a man or woman, but I can sense the devastating beauty. And make out the absurdly clean, white clothing. Like an unexpected streak of lightning at the darkest hour of night. I feel unbearable shame. I wish the mud would swallow me down into its filth.

You will not die. Stand up. Follow me.


But I can't. I can't. And I'm so miserable. For God's sake, I'm dying. Who is this? Can't they understand? I'm dying.

Yes. You can. Look at me. If you won't stand, then crawl. Follow me.

And I do believe. And am suddenly sure that life lies in dragging myself after the muddy footprints of this voice. And yet, here I lie, content to nurse my pain and feel death seeping into my bones like a curling mist. And I don't even understand why. Too humiliated to follow this beacon of perfect light and beauty in my worthless condition? Or too proud to reach my hand up for help and life?

But please don't leave me. Don't walk away. Give me more time. Or perhaps take away my wayward willfulness and save me despite myself.

I lie motionless. I don't want to die. But I know I am.

I don't dare open my eyes. Equally afraid to see utter darkness or His pure light.