Past Life Secret
Are we meant to remember our past lives? I remember one of mine and sometimes it seems cruel that I do. I haven't told anyone but my sister and my best friend about this but it seems appropriate to share it here. Maybe I'll get some answers.
I am seventeen. When I was twelve or thirteen years old, I had a terribly strange dream. In the dream, I was an adult, I looked completely different than I do now, and I had a husband and a small son. We were in hiding; my husband had helped a group of people that some very powerful people had wanted dead and they would stop at nothing to find out where these people were. To protect us, my husband had left us behind in house built into the mountainside and fled across the country, hoping to lead these men on a wild goose chase. The dream began on the day when my husband returned to us for one of his rare visits (everything I have mentioned before now, came to me as memories and knowledge). I remember waiting by the window as I often did and seeing my husband make his way up the narrow, twisted path that lead to our home. I hadn't heard from him for many months; I had begun to fear the worst and could scarcely believe that it was really him (I actually unsheathed the dagger hidden in my skirts, just in case) but it was him, and finally I could breath. My son rushed out to great him, while I held back, half expecting him to disappear before my eyes but of course he didn't and my son leapt into his arms.
There was a break in the dream here, and the next thing I knew, it was very late. I was alone for the moment, busily recording everything that had happened up until that moment; I had been keeping a diary for some time now, just in case something happened and my husband would one day return to an empty house. I could feel the ache in my back and fingers, and soon I set the quill aside and extinguished the candle. After a short search of the house, I found my family sound asleep in my son's room. This moment sticks with me the strongest: My husband propped up against the headboard of the bed, the book he'd been reading aloud still within his sleep relaxed grasp. Our son was curled up beside him, his little fingers clenching his father's shirtsleeve possessively, as if to never let him go again. I stared into my husband's sleeping face, knowing that I should wake him, but in wakefulness he had looked so tired, and in that moment, for the first time in a long while, he looked so at peace. Instead, I found a blanket and tucked them in, and retired alone to my own room.
Sleep, however, would not come. I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, troubled by an unshakable sense of foreboding. From the darkness of the late hour, the sound of almost silent footfalls reached my ears and soon a warm body slipped into bed next to me. I turned to my husband in silence, trying to relax in the comfort of his arms but the unnamed dread would not leave me. Hours passed, each drawing ever closer to the hour of dawn, and suddenly I could not stand it. Though we never spoke of it, these visits never lasted long and I knew my husband would have to leave again in the morning to keep us safe. Suddenly I was not so sure that mere isolation could really provide a safe-haven any longer. I voiced my fears and begged my husband to let us come with him this time but he was reluctant, so sure that we are safer there. Eventually he calmed me and soothed my doubts, but even so my sense of fear remained so strong...
When dawn came I still had not slept. My husband kissed me goodbye and left and with his absence a peculiar numbness fell over me, replacing the fear that had plagued me all night. Somehow I knew my fate and how that day would end.
Soon the pounding drum of hoof beats came echoing from the valley; the shouts of mercenaries rang harshly in my ears. I dressed quickly and run to my son, who had woken to the sounds as well but remained bravely silent. Wrapping him in a blanket to shield him from the early morning chill, I gathered him in my arms and fled out the back door and down the rocky hillside, cutting my bare feet to ribbons on the sharp rocks. I heard our front door splinter as the mercenaries broke it down, the shatter of glass and the roar of fire as they raided our home and set it aflame when they found that we were no longer there. They come after us on horseback and though I knew it is hopeless, I continued to flee as fast as I could, praying with every labored breath that I could buy enough time to save us.
They cut us off just as I reached the valley's halfway marker, an old well from which we had often drawn water on torrid days. It was just as well because I could not have gone on much longer as it were. My knees trembled with fear and exhaustion, my son weighing in my hands like a ton of lead, and slowly I sank to my knees. They approached me, demanding that I hand "It", meaning my son, over to them, but I refused. They barked the order again and this time their leader dismounted and approached me from behind. Grabbing my hair, he yanked my head back as far as he could, taking my own dagger and pressing it to my throat, offering me my final chance. I looked him in the eyes, clutching my son firmly in my arms and refused again. He slit my throat. I remember the pain, the feel of the hot blood spilling down my front as I slipped to the ground, the sparse reserves of my energy suddenly gone. The wound was painful beyond belief but it must not have been deep enough to be fatal because I was still alive. They tried to take my son from me, thinking that now I would surely give up but somehow I managed to keep him from them. I had often heard that the grip of the dying was stronger than any man? Now I knew.
From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a flash of steel in the rising sun and pain exploded through my stomach, the leader's sword sinking through my body and into the earth beneath. He stared into my face as my senses began to falter, his face smug with a sick sense of triumph, as the soil greedily drank up my life blood. He spoke, his words cruel and mocking but my attention was too drawn to my son, whom this man had finally managed to pry from me. He turned from me, dragging my son by the nape of his small neck in his big, grubby hand. He walked toward the well and dangled him over the opening, hesitating only long enough for my son to scream in terror, a sound that I hear in the night even now. And then... he let go. My son plummeted to his watery grave and everything began to fade, my will to live vanishing with him.
I was aware of the world around me long enough to feel a soldier's boot prod my side, to hear him ask what should be done with me. And I heard the leader respond, "Throw her in the river. She's dead."
That's when I woke up. I cried for a long time and fell into a shallow depression for several days after that. It took me a long time (several dreams and several visits from my husband's, and more recently, my son's spirits in fact) to admit that it was a past life. Maybe I'll post some of the other dreams later.
I would like to remember and find out more about this past life but I don't know how, and I am not comfortable talking to my husband and son's spirits when they visit for fear that of appearing crazy. I am really scared to visit a psychic about it because I'm terrified that they'll tell me that none of it's real, that I subconsciously made it all up. If you can help in anyway or can give some words of encouragement, (or maybe need more details for your research) please feel free to email me at storyweaverkayest @ yahoo . com
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