Too Young A Body
He hated his body, his awareness of it. He hated himself for his inability to control it. He could hear the others talking around him, acting as if he were unable to understand what was happening, deceived by his body. He cried like a baby when he needed something, his only means to get their attention, but there was so little they could do. Hunger was his constant companion. He had starved to death so many times. Sometimes they did try to do something about it, they fed him goat's milk... mare's if he was lucky. Of course, it made him sick.
He would spend his days and nights lying on his back, almost unable to move, surrounded by his own filth, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and other insects, always in pain, always afraid. He could recognize all the sounds of the camp. He knew every footstep, every buzz. The sounds and smells told him of what went on around him, even if he couldn't see it from within the prison of his body.
The women were kind to him, they took care of him, but often they fought each other. He envied their chatter and hated their screams, they reminded him too much of his own. He had learnt to fear the four men. He feared them because the others did. They were cruel, they would hurt them only because they could, because they were strong. He wanted to be strong too... strong enough to fight back, to defend himself... strong enough to make them hurt.
He was unable to recall his first death. He was unable to recall his life before he became an immortal, for he had heard them talk often enough to know what he was. He had been cursed, he would live for ever, unable to grow or to die. He remembered seeing a baby crawling once, but even that had been denied to him. He would never take his first step, say his first word...