Feathers gasped for breath. He opened his eyes slowly. He seemed to be in a dark alley, in a pool of water. It was very dark, and the moon shined on a dark red knife right next to him. Oh my. It was a pool of blood. As his sense of scent and touch came back, they made sure of what he already knew. He was in a pool of blood. His own blood, probably. He deduced that it would be idiotic not to think that he wasn’t stabbed. Oh yes. Gunned down in one life, and then stabbed in the next life. He stood up. This must be hell, because he would never have made it to heaven.

Hell seemed to be a bit strange, though. With streets of stone and dilapidated wooden houses that seemed like they came out of, well, medieval times, like in fairy tale times(that was the extent of his knowledge of medieval), he walked through the seemingly empty streets, bloody knife in hand. He also was covered in blood, or at least his torso was, but he did not really care.

As he walked past a particularly run down shack in the form of a house, he had to stop. It was as if his muscles just automatically knew how to go to the back of the house, where there was a door that was always open. Inside, was dimly lit, and an old man was nodding off on a chair in front of a broken down table. He woke, as if alerted by his presence, and looked around. The old man’s eyes fell on Feathers, and tears welled up in his eyes. He stood up, stopped himself, and then looked at the blood stained clothes. He said nothing, except, “Go to your bed.”

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“So you don’t remember anything?” Said the old man, whose name was Frank. Apparently he was a retired knight that had picked up a couple kids, including the previous owner of Feather’s body. His name was apparently Robert, without a surname. The house was two stories high, with one room where all the makeshift beds were for the children. Feathers had trouble with, well, children. The 4 other kids swarmed around him, who was the tallest of the group. He grabbed one particularly fast child, and asked him what he remembered about him yesterday, so that he could figure out why he had been stabbed with a knife. “I don’t know,” answered Johnathon, “you always go out and do your own thing. You come back with a couple of coppers.”