Charles Wicker

At a distance, Charles heard a bell chime. It was a high-pitched chime; loud, yet sounded so lonely in this darkness he currently faced. A fallen noble, a bastard Count, Charles didn’t know why those names entered his mind at that moment. Was the bell a sign for him to remember his death? He was indeed among the oldest human beings to ever live at the age where people’s lifespan didn’t stretch far past 60 years old. 70 years old, that’s old enough already. The fallen Count’s train of thoughts stopped when the sound of the bell—which chimed repeatedly in a slow and periodical manner—disappeared. Charles unconsciously held his breath in anticipation, waiting for the next scene to unfold. He knew he was dreaming—it was a rarity as he grew older—so when he dreamed, he would always look forward to them. At least, dreams are better than the trashy life he has led so far. A white light grew in the distance, as if signalling the start of another dream. Charles was prepared to see what his mind would do to entertain him, when suddenly, he felt a throbbing pain at the back of his neck. Charles moved his hands and cupped his nape. And as he was about to writhe, everything came into his view almost instantly. He saw the sight of a man with a height the tallest he had ever witnessed in his life. His raven wavy hair that covered his eyes radiated a sense of mystery as the unknown young man walked past the trees, inside a forest that Charles couldn’t help but feel familiar with. The man came by a body which was lying down on the ground. The body looks lifeless, as per indicated by the pale skin that turned slightly grey when shined by the moonlight. The dead body—malnourished and dressed with an outfit of a peasant—has a huge blow injury on the right side of its abdomen, completely leaving its abdomen with a devastating hollow that pierces through its body. What a gruesome sight, yet at the same time, the uneasiness that came welling inside Charles made the old noble restless. This scene was too vivid in his mind. The mysterious man then knelt down beside the body, which upon a closer look, was a body of a man. What came after that put Charles in a daze. The unknown man reached out to the dead body’s hand before he kissed the back of that cold hand. A thin stream of tears flowed down his pale cheeks, before he succumbed into a disheartened sob. The old noble couldn’t do anything but stayed still as he watched the young man mourned the body. It was the first time that Charles had been served this kind of dream. He heard that dreams are a twisted sense of reality jumbled up with sceneries and people that he had encountered once. The night time forest was proof of that, as he remembered seeing it once before, yet the young man was a first. As the mysterious man’s sobs prolonged, it became too unbearable for Charles to watch. He closed his eyes in hopes that the dream would fade away and be replaced with a different one, and that he wouldn’t have to hear that man’s sorrowful cries. Suddenly, the young man stood up and carried the dead body in his arms, before looking at the full moon that hung in the night sky. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you earlier… my love.” His gaze shifted down to the body in his arms before he went in a kissed its cheeks. For a moment, that made Charles wonder who the body was, that it made the young man cry so miserably. Charles floated closer to the young man, who, of course, didn’t see him floating in front of him. A short, caramel coloured hair that glistened in the moonlight. It took Charles a while to realize who the body was, and when he did, he could feel blood draining from his face. It was him; the dead body was him. *** Due to shock, Charles Wicker jolted up from his bed. His breathing was rapid, with a severe cough strewn along each moment of his inhaling process. However, rather than placing his concern towards his declining health, Charles was more concerned about the dream he had witnessed just now. Why was that body resemble him in his early years? Not to mention, that wasn’t even his current body, yet the body that he had in his previous life. Charles Wicker is currently in his second life. With the memories he had in his previous life, he thought he would had it good this round, yet as it seems, he have failed again to live a happy life that he wanted. In a damp, dusty room of an abandoned mansion, the old figure of Charles Wicker was struggling to get up on his feet. Coughing loudly and severely, he slowly trudged to the window, step by step and little by little, although his limbs felt like tearing apart, and the itch from the counting days of when he stopped having a proper bath caused him mental disturbance. The old man would love to just lay down on the bed, yet he was struggling to breathe with all the dust in the room, so by all means, he needed to at least get some fresh air. He coughed again when a speck of dust entered his throat from the accumulation on the windowsill. It took him a good few seconds to correct his breathing pace, before he pried open the window to let the outside air in. The old man stared far into as far as his sight could bring him. Cold wind from the chilly autumn hit his wrinkly face, immediately sending shivers down his spine. It was a habit that he obtained after being old, that is finding himself contemplating life for a long time before he came back to reality. What has he done in this round of life? The answer is nothing much, apart from the fact that he completely blown his chance of leading a truthful life. The proof of that can be easily spotted in plain sight. His eyes drifted down to the lawn of the house. Because his servants ran away and all his family never really came back to visit him, the lawn—which was once more majestic than the royal garden— was now filled with growing creeping plants and the garden was left unattended. The old man sighed, the crease of his forehead deepened as he did. All those creeping plants felt like a pain in his eyes, yet to whom should he say it? All he had was his old and pathetic self, and this huge mansion that no one wanted, as his property. Charles felt like breaking down into tears just like the young man in his dream. The poor old man then slowly stood up and dragged himself a bit further away from the window as he began to pray, like what he did in his past life. He deeply wished that he could turn back time again, that he promised to do even better than this, that he would never do anything bad again. The old Charles Wicker then closed his eyes, wishing that by the time he opened his eyes, he would be returned to the past again and repeated his life to be better. Suddenly, he saw a light flickering from the darkness of his closed eyes. He thought that he was finally returned, that the divinity had granted his wish again just like before. When he opened his eyes, rather than the vast green scenery of his village and his siblings who were playing with him, he saw a skinny white cat sitting on the windowsill. In between its nuzzles there was a small pouch. “A cat…?” The old man mumbled. The white cat and Charles stared at each other for some time. There was a strange feeling that Charles received from the cat, as if it knew what it was doing. The cat blinked its eyelids once, before leaping off the windowsill and leaving the small pouch in front of him. Charles was left feeling bewildered by the sudden occurrence. The small pouch; dark red in colour with a golden strap to tie the opening, was left lying on the floor in front of Charles. The old noble picked it up and scanned the pouch before deciding to carefully open it. From the small metallic clashing sound coming from the inside of the pouch, Charles could guess that there might be some money inside it, but how much would it be? As a noble, Charles was confident that he had a million times more than the money inside this pouch. But the him now didn’t have anything. Because of that, Charles saw those few pieces of gold as that of a currency that he could use. Coincidentally, at the same time, his tummy grumbled, asking to be filled. He remembered the last time he had a proper meal was two days ago, when the very last maid cooked him a pumpkin soup before she left the mansion. He may not know that maid’s name, yet thinking about it now, how grateful he was to that nameless maid for serving him food despite his inability to pay her wages. Charles’ tummy grumbled for the second time. The old noble dragged himself to the exit door, before he came across his own reflection in the dusty mirror. Messy hair, unkempt appearance, and a crouching, tired body that made him almost seem like the man from the Hunchback of Notre Dame. People would run away if he were to left the house as it was. Charles needed to do something about his appearance first.