Trigger Warning! // This story contains mention of death and suicide. Please be safe before reading.
Have you heard the tale of the bird that can rise from their ashes?
The Phoenix, it’s called. It’s a mythical creature that exists in legends. Supposedly, it can never die. Its wings burn bright with fire as it flies from the ashes of its predecessor. A symbol of immortality. At least, that’s what I’m told. That’s what I am. Well…kind of. It’s what father always said. We aren’t birds of course, but…well, it’s because of our traits. Our wings. And our immortality.
Me and my family can’t die. At least, it’s not easy to. If something was to be fatal to us, then it instead is just a hindrance. A bother I suppose. I’ve…never seen my family die. But I know we can. If we couldn’t…
I’m getting off track. The point is, what I am is a Phoenix. And…there’s not much else to say about it.
Well, there is one thing to say.
I guess I wasn’t being completely honest with you. I said I had never seen any of my family die. Which is true, I suppose. I have a habit of telling these half truths that don’t tell the full story. The truth is…
I’ve seen myself die.
This is a really hard story, but I’m going to tell it anyway. One night, at some point in my life, I had a dream. It was like I was outside of my body, looking outwards at myself. I didn’t have a body in this dream, I was just a pair of eyes watching my own body as she moved without any input from me. There wasn’t anything else in the room. It looked like our kitchen, but everything was out of focus and blurry. It was l;ike I was seeing the remnants of memory where everything gave me a unique sense of deja vu.
And I found that worst of all, I had no agency. I couldn’t move. Even as I watched my body pull out a kitchen knife from the countertop stand. I watched her turn the blade inwards, pointed at an unprotected section of her neck. And as she turned, facing me with a knife held in its dangerous position, I could see she was smiling. She thrusted the blade, and I didn’t close my eyes in time.
She collapsed in a sea of red and life faded from her eyes.
I woke up with a start soon afterwards, but the visions of it haunted me from then on. Every night was a dice roll on whether or not I’d fall into a dreamless sleep or be exposed to a new, dark and twisted nightmare. Countless times I’d watch myself die, leaving me guessing which dangerous object I’d turn inward and twist or push until my last breath was pushed out of my lungs and the beating of my heart stopped. Each time I’d feel the sharp pain of death, stinging until the sensation faded into nothingness.
And each time, I’d watch as a glowing green light brighter than my wings swim out of the remains, creating a fountain. The bright rays create a big, shining heart that beats with a soft and comforting rhythm. And soon, just as suddenly as the feeling of death overtakes me, the soft and sensitive touch of life comes back.
This cycle goes on and on. Each time, the feeling becomes clearer. As if my brain doesn’t want me to forget the sting of death and the breath of life, the feeling changes and shifts so as not to stagnate. Each death—each excruciating pain that burns or stabs or chokes—each different vision feels different and new but the aftershock of numbness always comes back around. It’s gotten to the point where—if I’m going to be completely honest—I don’t know if these are dreams anymore. I don’t know if I’ve really died or not. At this point, it starts to feel real.
I’m starting to think that this immortality isn’t a gift. It feels like some sort of curse—a nightmare I can’t wake up from. Those visions haunt me. They haunt my dreams and I fear sleep. I keep thinking about who thought it was right to give us the ability to live forever.
And I wonder if whatever fucked up god made me knew what they were doing.