BriarRose
Member
In a recent regression, I experienced the life of a young man in England, around the time period 1589.
It is very, very dark. I've been to the theatre with friends. My companions, like myself, could be categorized as drunken wastrels. I am sixteen years old, rather slight, not manly, with shoulder length hair, and a pathetic attempt at a mustache. I'm fairly well-dressed, in hose of some sort, a cod-piece, (!) and a doublet, slashed, so other colors can show through. The play we saw involved dueling, and hiding from the watch. I would swear it was "Romeo and Juliet". I must say, it was a rousing good production. We follow the play with a night of drinking, and are walking on a really unsavoury back-street of London. We are set-upon by thieves, and make a drunken attempt to defend ourselves. I am wounded in the thigh. Through this part of the regression, I felt a muscle twitching, in a rhythm, as if my life blood was pulsing away. My friends carry me to an inn, and attempt to staunch the flow. One says, "Gad, this time there will be hell to pay, if we present his father with a corpse. He is supposed to be up at Oxford." I can hear, but not speak. The bleeding must have stopped, because I find myself at home, facing my father. I am limping still, and tell him that I took a fall from a horse. I can see how red and choleric his face is - he has grey hair, wears black, and has a heavy chain around his neck. He slaps me, hard. I hate him with all the passion possible, in a sixteen year-old heart. He says I will go back to Oxford, and there will be no more mucking about with playwrights and actors. Years pass, and I see my death. I have been drinking, once again. I am resting, with my head on a tavern table. A man slips up beside me, and takes my purse. I struggle, briefly, and he stabs me, this time up under my ribcage - towards the heart. I die almost instantly. The odd thing about this experience is the fury I felt. I try to get back in the body. It's futile. I think, "What a drunken waste I was. It's my father's fault." I see a doorway open, and I know I'm supposed to go. My father is waiting in the light, and I refuse to enter. I watch as the tavern keeper has my body removed, and dumped in an alley. I am just raging - my hand passes through objects, I can't throw anything, or hit anybody, and God knows I want to. The last thing I see is a couple of cats, looking at my body. Thankfully, the regression ended. I must have eventually gone on to the other side, as I am no longer haunting a London alley!
It is very, very dark. I've been to the theatre with friends. My companions, like myself, could be categorized as drunken wastrels. I am sixteen years old, rather slight, not manly, with shoulder length hair, and a pathetic attempt at a mustache. I'm fairly well-dressed, in hose of some sort, a cod-piece, (!) and a doublet, slashed, so other colors can show through. The play we saw involved dueling, and hiding from the watch. I would swear it was "Romeo and Juliet". I must say, it was a rousing good production. We follow the play with a night of drinking, and are walking on a really unsavoury back-street of London. We are set-upon by thieves, and make a drunken attempt to defend ourselves. I am wounded in the thigh. Through this part of the regression, I felt a muscle twitching, in a rhythm, as if my life blood was pulsing away. My friends carry me to an inn, and attempt to staunch the flow. One says, "Gad, this time there will be hell to pay, if we present his father with a corpse. He is supposed to be up at Oxford." I can hear, but not speak. The bleeding must have stopped, because I find myself at home, facing my father. I am limping still, and tell him that I took a fall from a horse. I can see how red and choleric his face is - he has grey hair, wears black, and has a heavy chain around his neck. He slaps me, hard. I hate him with all the passion possible, in a sixteen year-old heart. He says I will go back to Oxford, and there will be no more mucking about with playwrights and actors. Years pass, and I see my death. I have been drinking, once again. I am resting, with my head on a tavern table. A man slips up beside me, and takes my purse. I struggle, briefly, and he stabs me, this time up under my ribcage - towards the heart. I die almost instantly. The odd thing about this experience is the fury I felt. I try to get back in the body. It's futile. I think, "What a drunken waste I was. It's my father's fault." I see a doorway open, and I know I'm supposed to go. My father is waiting in the light, and I refuse to enter. I watch as the tavern keeper has my body removed, and dumped in an alley. I am just raging - my hand passes through objects, I can't throw anything, or hit anybody, and God knows I want to. The last thing I see is a couple of cats, looking at my body. Thankfully, the regression ended. I must have eventually gone on to the other side, as I am no longer haunting a London alley!
