The Lives We Don’t Remember

“Do you know how many times Satan has killed you?”

“How many times have you actually died?”

“Have you ever seen your guardian angels?”

Drake remembered all these different questions Morgan, his older brother, had asked him on many of their long adventures.

One time on a boat in the African rivers, a long journey where we were tirelessly sent to dispatch another cannibalistic cult that was forming, and strangely growing, in the region.

It was nighttime, the moon was waxing three-quarters, when the canopy opened the stars and moon shown brightly on us as we discussed the nuances of the Laminae and Eidolons.

“How many times have you actually died?”

He said again, his head turning toward me as if to see if I was still listening.

“Too many.” I scoffed.

“No seriously, Drake,” He was saying. I turned toward him, while screwing the top back onto my flask. “Dad always told us stories about when he saw his guardian angels, I’ve seen them. I know that was the Laminae trying to interact with us before we were ready.”

Morgan took a drag of his vape.

“I dont know if it’s because Mom got her Scaur while she was pregnant with you… or if it was fate. Maybe you were just … I dont know… fated.”

I let myself slightly slide down the wooden deck style Adirondack chairs.
…
Pulled my pipe to my face and took a deep inhale.

“Morgan,” I coughed as I exhaled. “Morgan dont do this again.”

“Morgan,” I said sternly, “I’ll take your gorram whiskey away if you get all mopey on me in the middle of fuckin’ Africa. I WILL PLAY TOTO!” I half shouted at him, but not loud enough to disrupt any other travellers on the boat.

Morgan let out a chuff, and then a playful chuckle, “Alright Nate, calm down there Captain Firefly.”

“Ok Morgue, I’ll tell you exactly how many times I’ve died…