The sky was orange with the fires of war overhead, and even from so far away (a few thousand miles, maybe?), my skin boiled from the distant explosions. Thank God the screams were lost in space, but I'm not sure if this silence was much better. I was alone on this ridged planet; just me and my bag. When should I open the satchel? I told myself to wait. Do not be a fool, Kevan. She must be patient, and so must you.
The dust of my tragic landing had yet to settle, and my eyes began to burn. Tears came slowly but without shame. She won't mind. I swallowed hard, popping my ears and choking on the bulky air. With the coughing came more tears and my nose began to leak uncontrollably. I spat mucous and dirt across the ground and could not help but vomit then, letting it drip from my chin onto my medal-clad chest. This is when he introduced himself.
"Bloody Hell! I was just giving you some warning shots. Way to lean into it, but there was really no need to return the favor."
A tall, thin man with long eyes came forth from the dust, brushing off his seemingly imaginary robes with melancholy disappointment. He spread his piano-hands wide and looked down at himself (his naked body, that is).
"This will never wash out, you know."
He moped over to my side and slumped down on a rock, unwavering from his gaze on the invisible clothes. After shaking his head for another few minutes (an awkward eternity to me), the man finally looked up at my bewildered figure. I was not in shock, but certainly confused and the stranger could see this inevitably.
"My God, man; you look terrible!"
This was the truth, I'm sure. I was standing upright by this time, though just barely. My spine was arched backward and my arms hung aimlessly from their shoulders. A stream of drying vomit and snot (red with clay) was plastered across my face, neck, and chest; and my eyes, bloodshot now and swollen nearly shut, were glued lazily on my new neighbor.
"Speak for yourself, Gervais," I moaned. This was uncalled for, but I couldn't help noting his ridiculous accent. Neither could he. He perked up, clapping his hands together between his knees.
"Oh yes, I must confess my fascination for your Malacandra's British films. I've always dreamt of tasting that sweet Earl Grey..."
His expression drifted off into another place, where I was not invited. Another awkward moment later, he clapped his hands again and looked at me with concern. He reached up and put a wiry hand over my shoulder.
"But listen, you really need to be more careful next time. Okay?"
I laughed aloud, tossing my head back. My ribs ached from the rough crash and the coughing. My laughter only accomplished two things: the stranger caught a glimpse of my quickly-growing insanity, and I hunched over to vomit once again the still settling dust that I just inhaled. When I had my breath once more, I knelt beside the still-sitting stranger and carefully sighed.
"My friend... you don't realize you're naked, I am covered in my own shit, and our vessels are both destroyed. I highly doubt there will ever be a next time."
The thin man shrugged with reason and we stood up simultaneously. He prepared himself, adjusting what I assume was his genitalia, and looked up at the smoggy gray sun.
"Well then, I suppose we ought to fight to the death now, eh?"
I turned a circle and stretched my legs.
"I guess so. But what then?"
"Oh, don't worry. I'll figure something out."
I turned to face my naked enemy, who now clutched a 5 ft. steel rod in his left hand. At the sight of this, I stumbled back and screamed in frustration.
"Where the hell did that come from?"
He gave me no answer, but leapt violently toward me. I was caught off guard, but I'd like to believe I put up a decent fight before it ended. He must have broken a sweat along the way, but that's just one of those things I'll have to ask Christ when I reach Heaven.
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