Time heals all, so they say. This may be true, but the cruel irony of this statement is one I know too well. I have felt the burn of fire, the sting of electricity, the sharpness of knife and bolt. I have long since healed from these wounds, but memories, memories do not heal.
We are to learn from our mistakes if we are to ever make a way forward, but what if those mistakes cause us to digress? I know from first-hand experience how my enemy will strike, but that knowledge comes with a price. I know how he will move, because I have experienced the pain of his blows. That knowledge gives way to fear, the fear of pain, and with that fear comes the slightest hesitation, which in my world, will undoubtedly lead to death.
Memories do not fade, and only those of firm will and mind can overcome them to become stronger. I have learned from my mistakes, and although each one cost me, they have also built me up into the man I am now. I feel every knife as if it still sits, stuck in my body. The burns on my arms are no longer there, yet the scent of scalded flesh lies embedded in my nostrils. I breathe in and wince at the pain I expect to be in my throat, yet it is not there. Only memories remain.
As I stand on the precipice of this new found land, I pause. My eyes scale the wondrous city before me. The unknown awaits. My palms grow sweaty as I feel a familiar emotion slither into my subconscious. Fear. I know nothing of what lies ahead, and that ignorance will be my downfall, of that I have no doubt. I swallow in an attempt to moisten my parched throat, to no avail.
I take my first steps ahead, intent on continuing this mission, this pilgrimage. For I am an undead, and the death that surely lies ahead is nothing compared to the life that waits behind.