100 People who have died across the galaxy is a series of short stories.

Nost

Dank, that was the word, the kind of word that perfectly matches it's abstract meaning, the warm cold, the smell of sulphur, and a mild wet stickiness to everything, everything about this place flooded the senses with it.

Well; that was another word that described their scene, it was some kind of cylinder, light existed at the top, and in the middle was a bucket, held aloft by an old rope, whipped by the years, close to snapping.

Nost was practically naked apart from a pair of shit-stained pants, that clung to his oversized waist like a parasite, his body had come to understand them as part of himself, a horrible flap of dead skin that was occasionally pulled down to evacuate the bowels.

Nost, on the other hand, was wearing actual clothes, but the rot, even back here was present, the clohes loose fitting, track suit bottoms for a boy who never ran, an oversized t-shirt that was discarded and put on each morning.

Nost the elder was dying, though in truth he had been dying long before the stab-wound.

Nost the younger was also dying, but had the benefit of not being stabbed.

Nost was lying in the puddle of water and blood, his neck propped up against the back of the well wall,his eyelids, good god his eyelids, you've seen them, haven't you? Somewhere in life, the dead walking men, their arms weak, like thralls, stumbling through lives the world abandoned so long ago, the costs of doing business, the little people, the excommunicated, and in all of them, in the collective tragedy desperately attempted to be remedied through individual cures, the eyes, the hanging, yellow, eyes, of beaten men with no more fight, Nost's eyes want to sleep, to be walking one day and find themselves walking straight into heaven, where at long last, rest can be found.

There is no rest in the well.

His lips are dry, painfully so, his body has become bloated and his face become three seperate orbs of flesh, colliding into each other, to say he looks like a corpse is a lie, because corpse implies life gone, this is a life in continual decay, through choice, but only because it's the only choice that doesn't feel like one.

Nost feels it, the shot, the massive uptick, he's fucking ready, this piece of shit will burn.

“FUCK YOU.” he Roars, stumbling to his feet like a god, buried for centuries under the sands, the world shudders, Nost is back, and woe be to the heretic, woe to all who defy him, he has lived as a mouse for decades, but now, now, in this sacred moment he is a lion, his roar echoes along the damp stone, barely reaching beyond the well.

Nost looks at himself, rising like a beached whale screaming, he still holds the knife.

He walks over, and stabs him again, without a word.

“FFFFFFFFUCK.” the Titan roars, collapsing.

His throat feels like it has completely shut, as tiny whisps of air escape.

The Lion was shot, and now sobs

“you fucking prick.”

“you ruined everything.”

“you're going to die in this well, not me, you.”

Nost looked forward with the blank expression he'd worn since stepping into the well, and spat on the hulked mass.

“No, actually, i'm doing fine.”

Nost got up again, and kicked himself in the shins, he went down.

Nost picked up the knife.

“It wasn't supposed to go like this.”

“I was going to be a good boy, and do well, and be happy.”

“You didn't bring me there.”

“Fuck you.”

Nost the younger looked upon him, the pool of blood and fat.

Nost scrabbled with his last few, precious breaths, he took a cobblestone in hand, and threw it.

Nost the younger looked quizically at Nost, blood poured down the gaping wound in his forehead, and he collapsed, knife in hand

Nost's wounds healed instantly, and he scrambled over to Nost, lying down, blood pouring from his forehead.

"Oh god" repeated Nost, met with the hushing tones and gentle embrace of Nost

"We're going to die, my friend" said Nost the younger, staring at the top of the well.

Nost's frame had shrunk, he felt stronger, he looked at Nost like a new man, bereft of hatred, he continually cradled his dying head as he quietly wept

"Shhhhhh, shhhhh, shhhhhh" Nost repeatedly, gently cradling the very good boy, so scared and so hopeful, and so filled with rage at the premonition that had come to him, trying so hard to do good

Nost died, inside the well.

Nost emerged from the well, slowly at first, like a beaten dog shuffling towards it's new carers, towards the light.

He looked out upon the world, so beautiful, and still waiting for him, the seperation between him and her just a fiction, concocted years ago to protect himself, a shoddily made fiction, one that was waiting to be disbelieved.

22 - Nost