A collection of short stories and scenes

Escape

Prone.

Kripa lay on the muddy fields surrounded by companions long past. Arrows peppered their bodies while gore and mud smeared their faces. 

He mustn't weep. He mustn't move. Not yet. He watched for now as though a rat sensing a hungry eagle.

A rider dismounted his chariot and surveyed the area. Kripa couldn't see him, he only heard the squelch of his sandals. He lay as still as he could, eyes open, forcing his breath to slow even further. Later, he would wonder how he did it among the stench of the dead, among the worst circumstances that could befall him. 

He heard footsteps close by, and willed his body not to clench in fear. There was a brief pause followed by the squelch of footsteps fading. Satisfied that that all his foe lay truly slain, the rider mounted his chariot once again. The Gods had truly blessed Kripa for as the rider rode away, the chariot wheels only narrowly missed his head.

The curse, however, followed shortly after as he watched the wheel run over the head of his dead companion. In the instant before he could close his eyes, he'd seen it all. The brief moment the wheel balanced on his skull before it suddenly gave way. 

Tears flowed unbidden from his eyes. Upon opening them, his blurry sight could only make out a shell of his friends face. His head crushed as though a stray tomato at a country fair.

Did our lives mean so little?  He wept.

He laid there until the invaders left and the battlefield filled with silence of the dead. When all was dark, he rose and made way to the nearest village. His empty soul only churned with the will to survive. 

Whenever anyone asked him how he made it out of the massacre that day, his answer was always the same: he wanted to live more than he wanted to die.