In Death, I Felt Alive

The wheel sank into the wet ground beneath us. The rain had pursued our wagon since we left town, relentless as if the sky itself had closed its eyes on us. The waggoner, an old Catholic man, did not stop, convinced this was his challenge from God. We sat in silence, chained to the wooden walls, lost in thoughts of what we had left behind and what awaited us at the end of the road. Our fate was to be forgotten, cast away in a prison meant for our kind. We had not earned this punishment through crime or sin, but simply by existing. We were not criminals; to many, we were something far worse. The sickness marked us, turning us into the walking dead. We were lepers.

I had never left the town before. I had everything there; my parents, whose love got me to the academy, or "house of learning" as they called it. There I found my friends, my colleagues, and my love. I never felt the need to leave; my life was there.I studied herbology, anatomy, and other sciences, but my true passion lay in books about monsters—cruel beasts with sharp fangs and deadly claws. Were they truly as ferocious as described, or perhaps more misunderstood by the same people who saw us as monsters?

Heavy raindrops fell on the roof of our wheeled prison. There were no windows to look outside. I did not know where we were. Maybe on the king's road, which was lined with statues and lanterns pointing the way for the waggoner. Maybe we were driving in the mountains, where lightning struck the top and the stone giant answered by shoving large rocks down, destroying everything that stood in their way. Or maybe we took the route near the coast, favorite roads of merchants and sailors who carried exotic goods. I tried to imagine the sea, which was certainly showing its displeasure in this storm, through the waves that were crashing higher and through the cries of the pirates on the ships who were trying in vain to escape their fate. It was a funny idea as I have never been near the sea. I have read about the smell of the sea, the feel of the sand. Never have I understood why I did not come to the beach. I had never felt the need to swim in salty water, but as I sat in the wagon that was taking me away, it was the only thing I could think about. But I knew I would never feel any of that. 

The lightning struck and illuminated our room for a brief second. It woke up the elderly woman beside me. She did not speak. Nobody in this wagon ever spoke a word. Her face was scared and tired, her hands were big and shaking. What could have life been like for her? I never met anyone outside the academy except beggars and occasional travelers from far away lands. My community was full of intelligent people, high class elite. Never have I ever talked with someone like this woman. What could I have learned from her? Was she a worker in the fields, carrying heavy tools every day? Maybe she was an old adventurer, a heroine from my favorite legends. Or maybe she was something so simple yet beautiful as mother. I never cared if people have children or not. Maybe because children never came to my mind. Funny, how those thoughts crossed my mind from the moment I was diagnosed with this grim illness.

Maybe the leprosy was not my prison. What was life in books? Maybe I was chained in a golden cage, surrounded by other blind prisoners unaware of our lack of freedom. Comfort in the university chambers, tables always full of food in our dining rooms. We were never bored, not because of the thrill of our work, but because we were not allowed to see adventures as something more than just reports in the books. Is it possible that I felt more alive chained into wooden walls of our transport than inside my lecture room?

The rain got angrier, the howling of wind screamed at our unholy company. Every moment when lightning let me see a glimpse of the faces of my travelers created new questions. Who was the man with black beard in the corner? Maybe he was a knight, a gentle nobleman, who devoted his life to spreading good. Or maybe he was a bandit, foolhardy rogue, living every day in a cutthroat environment.

Who was the young woman with fire hair? Maybe she was a herbalist, a merchant, or even a witch. Could she save us from our destiny? Was she punished by God for her witchcraft? What did her daily routine look like? Picking herbs in the morning, making potions at noon and performing dark rituals at night, all while hiding from the torches of the Inquisition. 

And who was the waggoner? Was he something more than a religious warden, leader of our journey into oblivion? Maybe he had a family. Maybe they were waiting for him, maybe they were dead and he had no one except us. Was this his last journey? Is he different from us?

The roof was soaked, chains were colder and gloomier, air was so cold that you could see everyone's breath. I never noticed those feelings. But they made me smile. 

The lightning hit our wagon, and I felt the violent jolt as the storm roared above us and the bolting of frightened horses. The waggoner tried to calm them, but they started running, not listening to any of his words, not feeling the bloody whip in his hand. The wagon lurched forward, the wheels skidding in the mud as we were tossed against the walls like ragdolls. The waggon swerved wildly, the rain blurring everything outside. Then, with a sudden, sickening tilt, it tipped. We were airborne for a heartbeat before everything turned upside down. The wagon crashed, rolling over and over, before plunging into the abyss below, swallowed by the stormy darkness.

Raindrops woke me. It was ironic—back in the city, I used to flee at the first sign of dark clouds, never appreciating their cold, calming embrace. But there was no time for such thoughts now. I stood up amidst the wreckage, surrounded by shattered wood and broken chains. The man with the black beard lay motionless, his chest impaled by a splintered plank. Is this how he imagined his end? Nearby, the red-haired woman lay lifeless, her arm torn away, her body broken on the sharp stones. Did she see God in her final moments, or had she been damned long before?

As the world settled into an eerie silence after the crash, broken only by the relentless rain, a low moan of pain cut through the darkness. I recognized the voice—it was the elderly woman who had been sitting beside me. Her groans were weak, each one a struggle, and they sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to help her; I felt like all those years of studying had led me to this moment. But this was the first time I was without my tools, without other lecturers. My mind raced through memories of lessons at the academy, searching for something, anything, that could ease her pain. I had to save her.

The heavy thud of boots on wet ground broke through the night, growing louder as they approached. The waggoner was coming, his steps deliberate and heavy, splashing through the mud with a determined pace. The sound sent a fresh wave of fear through me, but I kept my focus on the elderly woman, her breaths growing more frantic.

“Leave her, it is no use.” 

The cold voice of the waggoner sent a shiver down my spine, freezing the air in my lungs. I tried to ignore him, to stay focused on helping the woman, but his presence grew more menacing as he closed in. With a rough shove, he pushed me aside, and I stumbled, fear rooting me to the ground. My body refused to obey as I watched him approach her, a cruel dagger gleaming in his hand, catching the faint light of the storm.

He knelt beside her, his face expressionless, as if the act he was about to commit meant nothing. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto mine, silently pleading for help I couldn’t give. With a swift, merciless motion, the waggoner drove the blade into her chest. The air left her in a choked gasp, and life drained from her eyes as quickly as the blood-soaked the ground beneath her. He looked at me, with a look of disgust. 

“She was just a leper, nothing more.”

Then I realized it. All the years I learned about creatures hidden in the dark, the foolhardy beasts and monsters from nightmares, were wasted as I was already living with evil around. It was not animals, nor folklore threats that imprisoned me, manipulated me to see only beautiful things, ignoring the rest of the world, the suffering of people. If I was still at university, I would be the same as this evil waggoner, judging lepers as nothing more than pieces of corrupted flash. The rich and powerful, the ones that decided how life should work, were the real monsters. They tried to convince us that we are damned, that we are already dead. Funny. At that moment I felt alive for the first time.

Maybe we were monsters after all, but they made us this way. They forced us into the shadows, preserving their illusion of a perfect world. Banished us to distant leprosariums to erase our existence. Did they expect us to obey like dogs? That was never my plan. If they wanted us to be the creatures that haunt their nightmares, so be it. We were just lepers, touched by death, with nothing left to lose. I thought of this as I strangled the waggoner with the remnants of my chain, the cold metal of the chain digging into his flesh. As his breath faltered and his life drained away, I felt nothing but a cold, quiet satisfaction. 

I was free, at least for a moment. The storm did not bother me anymore. I could go whenever I wanted and do whatever I wished. But all I wanted was to look around, smell nature, and gaze into the deep forest. Maybe I will be ambushed by bandits. Maybe I will find a coven of witches. Or maybe I will become one of the monsters I always read about. It was my moment of freedom. The moment I cherished until the end.