The Lich : I Don't Want To Die

In the year 2016, civilization had surged forward, making work easier—and people, perhaps, a bit lazier—with the ever-present hum of technology. Kenya's skyline now stretched skyward with towering buildings, and the rhythmic sound of machinery filled the air. Yet in some places, time remained stubbornly still. Mutako Village was one of those places, clinging to its traditions and resisting the rapid advancements beyond its borders.

Here lived a young boy who hated death with every fiber of his being. He had always been healthy, showing no signs of illness—until he turned fourteen.

"Cough… cough… Mom, am I going to die?" the boy asked, his voice faint but laced with fear.

"Yes!" came the curt reply from his father.

"No! Don't say that to him—he didn't even ask you!" his mother admonished sharply. She pressed a damp cloth to her son's burning forehead, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to comfort him.

The father stood by the doorway, a tattered curtain billowing at his back, casting his face in shadow. "Just look at him," he said, his voice harsh. "Look at how thin and weak he is. If it's a virus, the village head needs to know. Better to alert him now than let everyone die from a plague."

"If you tell the village head, our son will be burned alive," the mother whispered, her voice breaking.

The boy's eyes, wide and glazed with terror, searched his mother's face. "Mom, I… I don't want to die. I'm scared."

She cupped his face with trembling hands, her voice a threadbare whisper. "Calm down, my only son. You're not going to die. Mother will make sure of it."

His father shook his head and stormed out of the hut. "Enough of this. I'll go report it."

Behind him, his wife hurried, her voice desperate. "Baba Tony, please! Can't we talk about this? He's your son. Don't do this to him. Wait!"

"There's nothing left to discuss," he barked back, his steps unrelenting.

She took a shaky breath, her voice turning soft and pleading. "Fine. If you won't change your mind… at least say goodbye. He's your son. He deserves that much."

The man hesitated. At last, he nodded. "That's… the least I can do."

Back in the hut, he knelt by his son's side. "My son, the day you were born was the happiest of my life… and this—this is the saddest. I had so much to teach you, but now…" His voice trailed off, thick with grief.

While he was distracted, the boy's mother crept to the stone carving that rested as a decoration in the corner of the hut. Her heart hammered as she gripped it, lifting it high above her head. With a swift, desperate motion, she brought it down, crashing it against her husband's head.

He crumpled, blood trickling down his face, yet still he breathed. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and disbelief. "What… what are you doing? Have you gone mad?"

Without hesitation, she climbed atop his prone body and continued to strike, over and over, her voice a fierce, desperate whisper. "No son of mine is going to die."