Phoenix One Shot

Just a one shot I'm writing from a supporting character's perspective

He holds the cigarette between two fingers, so close to my skin that it feeds the fire. It's all I can do to force the air into my lungs. Remind the oxygen that it's for me rather than the flame. And remind myself to breathe. Ragged, deep breaths that seem like a ghost rather than real breathing, a real heartbeat, a real girl. 

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

I've been repeating the mantra for one, two, four and a half weeks and I still don't quite believe it. 

"Phoenix."

His voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up apologetically. It's as if I have to repent for having a thought of my own, that isn't filled with thankfulness and greatfulness to him. Even though I know it's impossible, I'm pretty sure that he can read my mind, that he knows when I'm unhappy or annoyed at him for rescuing me from this cruel, real world and locking me away in a crystal tower where I belong. Where only he can serve and see me. 

But I'm a good girl for him. I smile when he tells me to and nod when he tells me to and listen to every word he says. He saw through the hair dye and the glasses and although my hair is an ugly flame red and my vision blurry now, he says that I am fine. That he'll help make me whole.

He loves me. But his love hurts more than it helps and it scares me. He's better than those on the news, or in urban legends told round campfires, who use and abuse their own prisoners, before tossing them into the garbage.

But perhaps he's a bit worse because of that. Because he loves me. 

Rather than anger, though, his eyes meet mine. They're uncertain, almost beautiful. Two pale green marbles that stare into mine, almost begging me to keep my mouth shut, to be silent and beautiful for him, to sit still and just let him mark me as his. 

He reaches for my right hand, taking it in his left, squeezing it reassuringly. We've done this before, but it still hurts like the first time every time. 

"Hang on, baby," he mutters, and I try not to scream as he presses the cigarette into my collarbone, right above my right breast, branding me as his. It joins its brothers, eight other little holes in my flesh that mark me as his. 

And it's as if the flames are pouring over me, trying to consume me. And for a moment, I consider letting them in. Joining the other girls, wherever they go. Leave the land of the living and spend eternity in the grave. I've given up on God, if there is one he would've helped me a long time ago. 

But I clench my jaw. I will survive. I will rise from my ashes.

I'll be his Phoenix. But he won't be able to stand my flames. 

Author's Note

-I know it's got a ton of issues, but let me know what you think!

Reviews

[Madison Rose]

This is an excellent story about survival. Interesting, and well written Clayre, the story pulls me in, and I want to read more!
Ideas are running through my head. I see things getting worse for this character, and right at her darkest moment, when she is exhausted, swimming metaphorically speaking in deep, dark waters, mysteriously there appears metaphorically speaking a single golden thread for her to grasp, and a single ray of light to lead her out of the darkness. You can keep this help mysterious, so your readers can choose in their mind where the help is coming from, some readers will choose that the help is from God, while others will doubt that anything supernatural is happening. This would be very exciting to read about.

[Daniel Whitaker]

This is really good, you should add on to this story.