James...
What's happening?
"I was last exposed to drugs; what are these bastards planning again!"
His eyes were closed. What he heard were the engine sound of the car they were in, the sand scattered by the wheels mixing into the air, and the grunts from the masked men standing beside him with a faint smile—an eerie and ruthless smile.
Thus, about 10 minutes passed, and the car finally stopped. James could feel his heart pounding as if it were about to burst out.
He was scared.
He was very scared!
If he didn't want to appear strong, he would cry right away.
Just a 20-year-old young man. Why was he in this situation? Why him?
The masked men threw him out of the car. James fell on his arm, wanted to scream but only let out a small "ah" sound. What good would screaming do? Maybe if he stayed strong, he could seize an opportunity—at least that's what he thought.
He remembered their laughter at the cafe he went to with his girlfriend two years ago.
Just as he was lost in memories, a burly masked man lifted him from the ground and forced him to kneel. The masked man started speaking loudly in a language he didn't understand.
"You infidels dared to invade our country! Oh soldier of the infidel state, look at this animal (pointing at James) and take a lesson! Our cities, towns, villages were bombed, our natural resources ravaged, our water wells poisoned, our rivers stained with blood... and even the honor of our women was tarnished!!"
His voice overflowed with bitterness and rage. Suddenly, he recited a prayer in a melodic way, as if screaming.
"We will take revenge on you infidels. Our state will live forever; God is great!"
The long machete in his hand descended in one final moment. Extremely red blood splattered around; the sharp edge of the machete was now just red.
James froze. The reason wasn't just his fear and the tears streaming from his eyes; it was because he could now see his body. His head could clearly see his chest, groin, legs.
There was only one thing he couldn't see. Yes, his head had been severed.
As he looked at the body he no longer belonged to with regret and pain, he lost his vision. His eyes were open, but he could no longer see.
James Chaser died on February 28, 2071, in a desert in the Middle East, executed.
...
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!!"
Why did I die like this?
Why did I join the army?
Why didn't I listen to my mother?
Why did I lose my life because of some girl?
I just wanted to be a simple engineer, a simple position in a simple company, marry my girlfriend, maybe become the father of a cute little girl...
These are now just empty matters. Pain... I still remember it; it wasn't sudden at all—it was long. Very long. As if seconds were like months and years.
It's over now.
Now I can rest, after six months of captivity, after the struggle to survive, I can finally rest...
10 minutes, 20 minutes, half an hour, 2 hours, 5 hours!!
Why doesn't the damn pain go away!
Why aren't I dead yet?
His consciousness faltered at that moment. As if he could open his eyes, huh?
He slowly opened his eyes.
A cool autumn breeze, the aromatic scent of the pine tree, the slight sting like a mosquito bite from hair tangled in resin, the rustle of wind in the branches' leaves, the evening lights filtering through dozens of branches...
Intense pain from both wrists, indescribable hunger, the feeling as if his hair was being pulled out, a strange blood smell.
Blood smell? Yes, his head had been cut off. So how was he still able to see, smell, feel?
James gathered his thoughts and turned his neck, looked down. His body was still there!
He didn't try to understand what was happening; first, he needed to stand up. He tried to support himself with a branch using his hand, but he couldn't feel his hands—his wrists were cut, and strangely, the bleeding had stopped.
He leaned against this ancient tree with his shoulder, stood up. He was trembling, wounded; most importantly, his mind was in an inexplicable state.
He wanted to heal first and walked toward a path, walked, and walked more.
Finally, he fell to the ground and started crawling.
He crawled, crawled, crawled.
Keep going, keep going.
He saw a cabin, started crawling toward it, struggled, and finally reached the gate of the fence.
He had no strength left to endure; he couldn't stand.
He had no intention of giving up; he gathered strength in his feet and suddenly headbutted the fence.
The fence stood still...
On the contrary, his head was bleeding.
What are these fences made of!
But his effort wasn't in vain; he had seen the handle of the garden gate. Climb, climb, climb...
The struggle he gave to open a half-meter gate was unparalleled.
Finally, he grabbed the door handle with his mouth and opened the door.
He knocked on the house door, but no one answered.
Had the end come? No, why was he here? Hadn't he already died?
For some unknown reason, he started feeling his hands; it was as if his blood was regenerating.
He searched his body; he had to enter the cabin. Maybe he'd find something in his pockets to use as a lockpick—a knife, scissors, whatever.
He found a key; he felt like laughing inside. Maybe luck was on his side; after all, he might be living in this cabin.
It worked; he opened the cabin, entered, and closed the door.
It was cold, but still better than outside. He took a comfortable breath and walked toward the bed he saw.
His only desire was to sleep; even hunger didn't tempt him that much.
He slept.