I was six years old the first time I saw a man get killed.
My mother was taking me to an ice cream shop a few blocks away from our house in Gordon's Corner, a once promising residential district in Hub City that had devolved into a slum by the time I was born. People called it Lucifer's Corner. That was underselling it. We were leaving the shop, ice cream cones in hand, when a car wrapped itself around a streetlight in the blink of an eye. The driver was killed on impact while the passenger pulled himself out of the window and barely managed to get up on his feet, stumbling in our direction.
That was when another car pulled up. A young man in ripped jeans and a tattered hoodie hopped out of the passenger's seat with a gun in his hand and a glint of hatred in his eyes. He marched right towards the man that just survived the crash, grabbed him by the nape of his neck like a puppy, then shot him twice in the back of the head. No hesitation. No time for his victim to get a word out. Didn't even look at us before hopping into the car with his friends and driving off.
My mother was screaming but I couldn't hear her. Everything seemed far away, like I had just been fitted with a new pair of concrete boots and tossed into the ocean. She pulled me away while screaming, took off her jacket and used it to wipe my face. She pulled the now bloody coat away and it was only then that I realized my face was covered in blood and brain matter. I didn't cry. I didn't understand what I had just seen. But it never left me. That man breathed his last on November 29th, 2001.
People used to ask me if I had nightmares about it for weeks after the fact. I always told them yeah and left it at that. Truth is they never stopped. Matter of fact, I'm having a nightmare about it right now. My surroundings twist and morph, my mother's crying visage fading away as darkness consumes everything. All that's left is me, the man, and the void. His cold, dead eyes peer into my own. There's no emotion there, no life, no spark behind the pupils.
As I stare into his eyes, I notice his skin is crawling, almost bubbling up as it consumes his features. It swallows his mouth, then his nostrils, ending with his eyes.
His lifeless eyes.
And then, as the skin finishes swallowing his features and his ginger hair slowly fades into black, I realize that I am looking at myself.
I was twenty-six years old when I died.
I went to the docks chasing after my latest lead on Wesley Fermin. More proof of his mob ties, some racketeering ring, all the good stuff. When I got there, they were waiting for me. Must have known I'd becoming. About half a dozen mobsters with guns and snarls, ready to blow me away. I broke one's arm. Another probably hasn't walked right since. I think the third man's cornea ruptured as I hit him right in the eye socket.
Then a woman stepped forward and they all backed off. She had black silk for hair and obsidian eyes that shined with a reflection of the pure white snow on the ground. A small smile on her face, dangerous, a look that could kill. She took another step forward and I readied my fists, a show of confidence more than an actual invitation to fight. I didn't like hitting girls; still don't. "Back off. I don't want to hurt you," I said, bravado dripping off my tone.
"Don't you?"
Before I even knew what was going on, I was on the ground. My body was broken, bruised, bloodied. Decimated by the woman with the obsidian eyes. The mobsters stepped forward, laughing, those that I didn't already beat to a pulp at least. One had a pellet gun. His specialty, "didn't need anything stronger", stupid gimmick. Shot me in the head. Threw me into the Hupert River. I breathed my last in the icy cold waters on November 29th, 2021.
And then I lived again.
She saved me. The woman who killed me. Lady Shiva. Legendary assassin, martial artist, mercenary. She saw in me a kindred spirit, a warrior's spirit, someone who could decimate his opponents the way she did to me. Just needed some guidance, a teacher, and she knew just the man for the job. She took me to Tot's, let him patch me up a bit, and when I was able to walk again she sent me on my way to Richard Dragon. Once, he was a world famous martial artist and adventurer. Now, a hermit with a log cabin, living in the wilderness, chopping wood, meditating. He didn't seem like much.
"Gonna be cold tonight," he said when I approached. He grinned. "There's an axe and some logs out back. Get to chopping."
I looked at him like he was crazy, then glanced down at the cast my arm was wrapped in. "You're nuts if you think I can chop wood like this. Is this a test or something?"
His grin grew. "You could say that. Are you so stubborn that you'll just freeze your ass off rather than try?" I blinked at that. Dragon didn't give me time to answer as he turned around and walked back into the log cabin.
I went out back and picked up the axe, trying to find a good way to hold it. Took a bit to figure out how to do it with one hand, but I got the hang of it quicker than I thought. The logs splintered against the axe's blade, growing smaller and smaller, nice chunks for loading up into a fireplace or furnace. It took a few hours, but when I was done, I had a few armfuls of firewood to take back and forth, enough to last a night.
"Good work," he said. He got to work on starting the fire as I took a seat at a kitchen table. A kettle and two tea cups sat on it. When he was done, Dragon settled into the chair across from me, grabbed the kettle, and filled the two cups. He grabbed a cup and began to take a sip from it. Hesitantly, I took the other and did the same.
As the cup left his lips, he spoke, "Do you want to hear a story?"
"Sure," I said. "Tell me a story."
He smiled at me. "Once, there was a man who dreamed that he was a butterfly. He fluttered around here and there, carefree, content. He had nothing on his mind but going from flower to flower. But as with all dreams, his came to an end. And when he awoke, he pondered something: was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?"
I snorted. "Everyone's heard that one. It's just hokey pseudo-philosophical shit."
"But the question still stands. What was he?"
"A man dreaming he was a butterfly. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it."
"But what if life, as we know it, is all just part of that butterfly's dream?"
"Then I guess that butterfly's got a sick sense of humor."
It was Dragon's turn to chuckle. "That he does."
Weeks passed. Eventually, my arm was freed from the cast, and I was able to chop wood with two hands. Still no training in the martial arts from Dragon. I'd ask and he'd smile and say that it was coming. One night, we sat on the porch together, the cool breeze soothing my sweat soaked skin. Winter was winding down and giving way to spring. I didn't think Dragon would speak and I wasn't sure if I wanted to either. Eventually he broke the silence.
"Why do you think Shiva sent you to me?" he said. I turned to look at him, but saw his eyes were set on the stars rather than myself. I turned my gaze to the stars with him.
I didn't have an answer. Didn't want to say that, so I just repeated what she told me. "She thinks that I'm a kindred spirit to her. Some kind of warrior that just needs the training to unlock his potential... Or something like that."
I could hear the smile through his tone. "That is why she thinks she sent you to me. Why do you think she did?"
Guess I would have to think of something. "... Because without someone to hone my body and my mind, I would have wandered this Earth in search of answers for the rest of my life and never found what I was looking for."
"And will you find them now?"
"That's the question I keep asking myself. I won't find the answer from you. But maybe... You'll give me a hint."
I looked to Dragon and found him looking at me, still holding that content smile on his face. Then, he stood and walked past me and onto the grass. "Get up. I'm gonna show you some moves." I blinked at that, but got up and followed right after him. He showed me some breathing techniques, stances, a few punches and kicks. Practical tools and movements of the body, meant to aid my mind in its trials and tribulations... And to beat the hell out of bad guys with.
I stayed with Richard Dragon a few more months before my training came to an end. Everyday started with chopping wood, then stacking it, then studying Zen, working on martial arts, and ending each day with long talks under the night sky with my mentor. When it was time for me to leave, hike back to civilization with my newfound skillset and knowledge, he finally spoke on Shiva's assumption that I held the spirit of a warrior, for the first time since that night so many months prior.
"I disagree with her on that," he said. "You fight, yes, but it is not for the joy of fighting. You find no passion in the fight itself. What you find passion in, what you fight for, is the never ending hunt for truth." He paused, meeting my eyes. "In another life, long ago, Shiva would have been a great warrior, crushing armies, leading her flock to victory. You, my friend, would have been a philosopher."
"The man dreaming he was the butterfly?"
"I think it is more likely you are the butterfly, dreaming you are the man."
We said our farewells. He sat down on his porch, watching me go as I started the trek back to civilization. Fifty miles to the nearest town, another fifty after that to reach Hub City. Nothing but the long road ahead of me, barren, no cars or people for miles around. Long way to go with only the clothes on my back. A few years ago, I would have dreaded doing anything like this, like most people.
Now?
Now I don't care.
Butterflies don't sweat distance.
2x Thank
