Second Chance at Death
He felt a tap on his shoulder. His eyes flew open. To an unknown environment. He rubbed his eyes to erase the effect sleep had on him. The pain in his head was like that of a hammer crushing his brain cells, acids scourging his stomach and tearing intestines to shreds.
There was no one in sight. He sat up, his head barely hanging on his neck. Hands firmly placed on the concrete floor. He tried to move but the back of his head hit the gate behind him. Startled at the noise, he jumped to his feet, staggered backwards, looked around and saw shrubs surrounding him. He took a breath, a deep one and heaved a sigh.
The environment had an eerie feeling. His brain was rowdy yet filled with silence. The building he stood afront of, was the only building in sight. He stared. It was a bungalow, balanced, not symmetrical. The appearance of low exposed roof with beams and rafters covered a modest front verandah.
He tried to remember but his brain was a clean slate. Who am I? How did I get here? What happened to me? were the questions that ran through his mind. Then he felt it, a piece of paper in his palm. He wasn’t sure how long it had been there. He opened it with a trembling hands and saw a shocker.
Like a flash of lightning, the whole of his dark mind’s landscape illuminated. Previous events flashed before him, like details of a tortured dream happening with no cause. He remembered her face. The face of his mom when three bullets drove out the tissues of her brain. Then his father when a sharp knife ripped his heart apart. He remembered rushing to the killers only to be cuffed up.
The pictures flashed again, of him in darkness while a voice like that of his uncle barked orders. He had eavesdropped and peeped through the key hole to see his uncle’s face. He had screamed and vowed to take revenge when suddenly something touched his head and enveloped him in darkness.
There was an ignition, the embers of new fire burned within him. It was a fire of betrayal, of indifference and anger, of abstract brooding and intense desire.
He wondered what happened to his memory. Who tapped his shoulder. How he got to where he was.
He took another look at the crumpled paper. It read:
“This is your uncle’s house!”
He didn’t knock. He couldn’t have. He needed no traces. A strange blooming of strength surged through him as he climbed the fence. “Gimm!” his feet landed on the concrete floor.
He tiptoed to the generator stand, pulled out the hose and started splashing liquids over the compound. He could hear voices but they never deterred him. Done with his exercise, he lit a fire.
Walking away from the menacing inferno admist cries and screams. He wore a mischievous grin, beat his chest and shouted.
“I am Omenka, the true son of my father.”