Information

Hedjrebl
Legacy Name: Hedjrebl

The

Graveyard Sheeta
Owner:

vespa

Age: 18 years, 2 months, 2 weeks

Born: March 5th, 2006

Adopted: 18 years, 2 months, 2 weeks ago (Legacy)

Adopted: March 5th, 2006 (Legacy)

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 9
Defense: 12
Speed: 11
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 17
Books Read: 17
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

even the littlest hurt don't leave in a day
when you've got the ill will to make it stay

Profile and backstory under A LOT of construction. Please check back soon!(This story is gross and unfinished, don't read it. :C Seriously! It can only get worse from here on in.)

Some vandal has gouged out the name on this grave marker, and the dates on the weather-beaten stone have all but worn away. You can barely make out the following, carved in faded, delicate script:

Born March 5, ????
Died November 4, ????

Before moving away, you notice that something else was scratched into the pitted grey surface beneath these dates, clearly not by the maker of the headstone, in crudely formed letters:

BORN NOV. 5
J.F.

If you were to ask around, no one would be able to tell you who was buried here; if the grave were exhumed, it would be found empty.

--------

"If someone offered you life after death, would you want it?"

I remember turning my head at that. It was a bit surprising to hear such a thing from him. Being men of science, we rarely, if ever, discussed such matters-- but then, I think that I had always found his questions to be a bit strange.

"It would depend on what they were asking for in return." I felt that I had answered cleverly. Smirking a bit at the folly of the question, I returned to my papers.

"Nothing."

"Hmm?"

"No cost, no price. Nothing at all. Would you want it?"

Something in his voice told me that he was smiling as well, and I felt my own smile fade slightly.

If I heard that voice today, I would know it.

"I suppose I would, then."

Why can't I remember his face?

--------

I woke up. All around me was dark, and quiet; the only thing that gave me any clue to my surroundings was the smell. It was almost comforting-- that smell of fresh earth, like the medicinal garden I tended outside of the laboratory, more like a flavor at the back of my tongue than anything else. And the scent of pine.

That was when I knew where I was.

As my hands flew to the cool wood above me, then to my sides, scrabbling and pushing at the hard surface in search of a way out, some part of my mind told me, You should be hyperventilating. It took me a moment to realize that until then, I hadn't been breathing at all. I gasped, working my lungs in a curiously conscious way: in and out, in and out, feeling the stale air pass through my larynx and into my chest, then back out again, over and over. My heart should have been pumping furiously with panic, but it wasn't. I couldn't feel it at all. I drew in one tremendous breath and held it, becoming very still, waiting to hear the thumping of blood in my ears. Nothing.

Then I heard it: the far-off sound of scraping. Metal on grit and tiny rocks. Rhythmic. Slowly becoming louder.

Something was above me.

--------

Footsteps sounded across the top of what I now knew to be my casket, muffled only by a thin layer of dirt, whipping me up into even more of a frenzy. By now, I was aware of the splinters embedded in my palms, lodged deep underneath my fingernails, but I felt no pain, and I knew that I was not bleeding. My comprehension of the next few moments was jumbled. I heard the lid above me being pried up, and felt tiny clumps of earth trickle into the box next to me, but whether due to the darkness of the night or my own hysteria, I could see nothing, though my eyes were wide with panic. A pair of hands grabbed me by the arms and hauled me up, up, out of the grave. I squirmed like a trapped animal, but the hands held fast, heaving me onto the ground above, where I sprawled face-down, writhing in the cold, wet grass. I had been trying to scream for some time at that point, but I do not know whether I ever made a sound.

Before I could regain my senses, a hand fell on the back of my head while another, heavier pressure ground into the base of my spine, pinning me down and holding me still. Something sharp slid underneath the skin of my neck; the lack of pain made this sensation even more horrific. I don't know what this accomplished- a fluid injection would have been pointless, as my blood was stagnant in my veins- but I immediately felt my limbs grow heavy as my consciousness began to fade.

"Welcome back, doctor."

I would know that voice anywhere.

--------

As much as I would prefer to forget them, the days after I regained consciousness seem to have been written indelibly into my memory. I remember opening my eyes to see pale sunlight filtering through a cracked windowpane above my head, its glass filmy and caked with grime, but I didn't have time to examine my surroundings further before I was overcome with a wave of intense nausea. I rolled over onto my hands and knees, gagging and coughing terribly, though there was nothing in my stomach or lungs to be cast out. It felt as if my body was attempting to turn itself inside-out, and I imagine that if I had been capable of feeling pain, I would have been in agony; instead, I became so lightheaded and dizzy that I thought I would slip back into unconsciousness. There was a horrible taste in my mouth, sharply chemical yet with an unmistakable undercurrent of organic rot. Eventually, the retching subsided, and I pulled myself shakily to my feet, wheezing not out of any need for oxygen, but in an attempt to rid my airways of that putrid stench.

I was standing in a large, barren room that I didn't recognize at all. From the thick layer of dust that coated the floorboards and windowpanes, and the remainders of spiderwebs spun long ago between the wooden beams of the ceiling, it was obvious that the space had laid unused for quite some time. Against a far wall were stacked a few wooden crates, which I would later find to be empty; closer to my side of the room, to my right, was a wheeled table of some sort, possibly a gurney. I noticed that its surface, while stained and worn with age, appeared to be relatively free of dust, and the scuffs on the floor surrounding it suggested recent activity. How long had I been unconscious?