The rare coin

It sits tucked away in a corner, hidden behind a new orleans doubloon. At first, it seems like a duplicate of the Mardi Gras coin, but a closer look reveals it to be much older. Forged in ancient fires, the characters once engraved on its faces have been worn away by time and blood. The edges have likewise been worn smooth, and one face is heavily scratched. Some of the scratches look as if they were decades, maybe even centuries old, others look brand new.

I had held the coin once, felt the ancient gold warm in the palm in my hand. In that instant, I felt the weight of ages in that coin, felt the pommel grip of a gladiator’s sword, the taste of a dead man’s lips, the sensation of my life’s blood seeping into the dust. I heard cannonfire, saw men dressed in gray and blue thrusting at each other with bayonets. I smelled sulfur and the cloying stench of gangrene and rot. Images, sounds, smells, sensations, the coin had a story to tell, of death and destruction, murder and sacrifice. A story of humanity. I dropped the coin back onto the shelf before it could tell me anymore.

Corin never told me where she had gotten the coin, only that it had cost her something that she was never willing to talk about. She had said she always wanted to go back to where she had found it, someday. I never knew where. I may never know.

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