Whiskers and War Wounds
Entry by Wyatt. This entry needs artwork!
My name is Dexter Jared Peterson. I am 26 years old and I live in New York City. In the last seven years I have lived as 11,577 different people.
No, don’t put down the book, I’m serious. 11,577. It’s a hard thing to believe, I know, but I have. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, I don’t know myself. I’m amazed I’ve managed to last as long as I have. I’ve been gladiators in ancient Rome, Allied and Axis soldiers in WWII, a would-be suicide bomber… I’ve been a man-killing lion in the African savanna, a twelve-point buck during open season, a fox being hunted in the English countryside… the list goes on and on.
Do you know what it’s like to be shot at? I’ve had it happen to me more times than I can easily count. You’d think you’d get numb to it after a while, but no, each bullet whizzing by your head sends a fresh surge of mind-destroying adrenaline through your body. Even if the body isn’t human. I’m not even sure I’m on Earth anymore.
I woke up this time, and the first thing I saw in front of me was a snout. My snout. Oh great, I think, I’m an animal again. I tried to roll over onto all fours – and I hit blanket. Am I a pet this time? That’d be a pleasant change of pace… I’m just about to fall back asleep beneath the snug blanket when something else strikes me. Namely, a boot.
“Private Peterson, get your rear in gear!” I sat bolt upright and turned to face the sound and the source of the flying boot. There, standing before me, is a man with the head of a wolf. What godforsaken hell have I wound up in this time?
Okay, the bullets going by stay freshly terrifying, but the bomb shells are oddly comforting. Even if I’m in this crazy cat-man body, at least it’s still recognizable what’s going on. I wound up in a war again. At least last time I was a colonel – here, I’m just a lowly private. What war it is, though, I haven’t a clue. They speak English here, wherever it is that we’re fighting – well, this side does. Even though I have to admit I’m curious to find out what language the other side is speaking, I’m just slightly more interested in not getting shot to pieces.
Wherever I am, they haven’t gone past trench warfare yet here. I hate trench warfare. Getting sent up just to die… it’s a horrific fate I’ve seen more often than any man alive. Give me a good rifle, I’ll go be a sniper, just don’t stick me in the trenches. I’ve lived through both sides of pretty much every terrestrial war that was fought in the trenches, enough that when I go back, things start to look familiar… this one is new.
Definitely not on Earth. I wish I could ask somebody what war we’re fighting, but last time I did that I was slapped in the face and told to go shoot at the bad guys. Well, those might not have been her exact words, but that was the gist of it. It only takes once to learn to just hunker down and hope I get through the day. All I can tell is that it doesn’t seem to be a war over race – or if it is, the races are less obvious than you’d think. I’m a cat, getting bossed around by a wolf, I had a ferret on one side of me and a rabbit on the other in the trenches, and I think I might have seen a giraffe on the enemy’s side.
I’m amazed that one hadn’t been shot in the head yet.
I believe I took my 436th bullet today… yep, 436th. Stings just as bad as the others that I took in the shoulder. I have no idea how closely my body relates to that of a human body right now, but from where it hit, the Dexter Peterson of this world should be able to keep his arm. Assuming they’ve figured out antibiotics here. They smeared something that stung worse than the bullet onto the wound.
They say pain is weakness leaving the body. If that’s the case, I’d better be a bodybuilder next. I can barely write five words without having to stop and hold my shoulder until the pain goes away. Hopefully, I’ll go to my next body soon. If not… well, this is going to be an uncomfortable life. I wonder what Alexandria will look like here…