As the winds sway in a dance rivaling that of a flowing stream, and the rain falls like gentle kisses upon the skin, Felix exits out onto the street, a blip in the passing currents. The winds ruffle Felix's blonde locks, forming cages of curls upon his head that are locked up by the pressure of the downpour.
Felix looks up to the sky, his golden eye squinting as it refracts the rays of light within its web-like patterns. His right eye remained safe from the sharp rays, hidden beneath his eyelid.
He lifts his coffee to his lips, the warmth from the cup shooting a tingling sensation beneath his skin. The steaming liquid runs down his throat, releasing aches that have accrued from his yelling of names.
Felix releases a light sigh, closing his eyes in a moment of brevity before turning off of the corner of his workplace, deciding to take a shortcut home.
As he wanders back, the uneven concrete causing him to walk with a certain waddle—favoring his right—he comes upon an alley.
Sandwiched between an antique shop and a thrift store, it's poorly illuminated in the approaching dusk, shadows spilling out at the corners.
Felix doesn't give the alley much mind, preferring to move past it as quickly as possible—he doesn't much care for the dark.
Suddenly, hands emerge from the darkness and latch onto him, pulling him within before he can even begin to fight.
His leg buckles as he struggles.
He flails his hands, just barely missing his attacker's head. He attempts to scream, to bite, to call out, but his mouth is clamped shut far too tightly.
A sharp edge finds its way to his throat.
"Quiet!" a voice behind him commands, tightening their hold on him.
Felix's breathing fluctuates sporadically as he tries to right himself, but the increasing pressure from the blade halts that train of thought.
"No funny business. Now, you got any valuables on you?" They barked the question out, like an officer who'd caught him in the act of a crime. His voice was rough and gravelly, worn.
Felix nodded shakily, both out of fear of the blade and the lie; his jerky movement caused the blade to trace a line of blood.
"Sit still!"
Felix obeyed.
"Good." the man said with a snort.
Slowly, he began to pat Felix down: his waist, his pockets—and as the man reached downward, frustration evident in his rougher execution of the pat down, Felix acted.
He sent a kick back at his attacker, his foot landing right on the center of his shin. The man cried out and jerked his hand back toward him as he backed away from Felix.
As Felix lunged away and turned to face the man, his head dizzy and his legs lacking in strength, he saw the man's blade covered in red.
Something trickled down Felix's collar bone, and as he reached up to his neck to check what, he pulled his hand away to see red.
Blood.
His knees hit the concrete as he began to cough and retch, blood pouring from his mouth in equal measure as his neck. It felt like drowning.
"Dammit…" the man mumbled, his words muffled to Felix's ears. A clatter resounded in the alley, and with a blink all that Felix could see was the bloody knife adorning the filth-covered ground.
"Hel.....Help…" Felix spat out, his words tasting of iron. The edges of his vision began to be encroached by darkness.
His pupils shrunk and his breath became harsher, more erratic. The blood began washing back down his throat, filling his lungs, as he continued his retching.
Light fades from his vision.
"Ple…ease…." tears began to fall, gliding down his face and into his mouth, the iron taste now accompanied by salt.
As he lay on his back, now too weak to even thrash about, he coughed a wad of blood up onto his chest. He tries for breath, both his eyes open and wide with the effort.
Light fades from his eyes as his chest stills.
His first death was a slow one.
—
Felix lurches from bed with a hoarse yell, his hands grasping at the nonexistent wound at his throat. His breathing slows as he takes in his surroundings—he's at home, in his bed. His eyes fly about his room, searching for something that'd indicate this being some sort of dream or illusion.
Everything seems real.
His sheets are cool and smooth. The air smells of artificial cleanliness. All of his things—souvenirs, figurines, books—are arranged neatly.
He's okay. Everything is fine.
Felix throws the covers off and swings his legs over the bed, his head going dizzy as his feet hit the floor.
He stumbles his way into the bathroom, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision of the tossing and turning of reality.
Once his hands manage to clasp the edges of the sink, he turns on the water and splashes his face, dragging his hands up and down to alleviate some tension.
His hands fall and his eyes meet his.
In the mirror, he looks tired, as if he was drained of all his will. His eyes carry prominent bags, purple now from their little recovery time. But it's not that he pays any mind to, no. Felix stares into his own eyes. One sharp, golden eye glaring into his, and another eye staring into its reciprocal twofold, the two pupils dilating independently of the other.
Felix hangs his head, releasing a heavy as his shoulders sag.
"A bad dream… that's all it was."
With a turn and an exit from the bathroom, Felix begins his day.
He dresses himself in his beige khakis, his green shirt, and pockets his punch-in card before heading out to work. He heads down the stairs of his apartment building, the stairs creaking in a way that warns the mind of collapse. He exits the building, greeted by the busy streets and honking cars of the city.
"Good morning, Seattle." he mumbles, his tone dry.
And so he begins limping his way to work, turning his body to avoid the oncoming traffic of people and brushing shoulders when he has to.
The sun blares down on him, his shadow bending like oil.
A honk resounds in the air. Felix flinches and looks to the source, only to have his skull caved-in by a speeding truck—the insides of his head now decorating the brick wall behind him in a manner similar to that of rippling waves.
Felix's second death was quick.
—
Felix awakes once more in his room, more desperate in his checking of his body than before. In a flight of rage and fear, Felix rushes out of his bed to the bathroom and uses the mirror to check the places he can't see.
His phone buzzes, a weather notification.
He opens his phone and freezes.
April 26th, 2022. The same day he choked on his own blood.
Felix's breathing falters and resumes on and off as begins his routine.
Dress, though now more untidy. Stairs, now skipping a step at a time. Out, he now pushes past the people around him.
Though he went a different route than previously to work, choosing the longer way, Felix heard a creaking above him. His eyes flick up, his three pupils shrinking to pin pricks as ten's of steel beams impale themselves into him.
It took him two minutes to lose consciousness. Another one and he was dead, his shadow gone alongside him.
—
This pattern repeats.
An unexpected fire. A gas explosion. A robbery. A clumsy accident. A piano from two stories above. No matter what he does, Felix keeps dying, over and over and over.
After his seventeenth death, Felix found himself wandering into the park.
Surveying the surroundings, greens faded to limes and grass wilting under his steps, Felix found himself standing in front of an old man at a chess board.
The man didn't glance at him, instead turning his whole head to face him. His pale, milky eyes met Felix's golden, dull ones.
"Care for a game?" the old man asked kindly, his smile small but as bright as the sun.
Felix took a seat. The old man made the first move.
The game went on in silence, and as the timer reached the ten minute mark Felix spoke up, placing his Queen next to the old man's King, protected by his Bishop.
"Are you afraid to die?" Felix asks the old man.
The man stares at the board in silence before nodding, accepting his loss.
"I am not."
"Why?"
"Why should I?"
Felix wanted to say pain, but this old man—looking well into his eighties—likely was already familiar with that. And he wouldn't understand Felix's plight, not when he only needed to die once.
Felix gets up silently and leaves, his shadow stretching out, remaining at the table, before returning to Felix.
Five minutes later he was mauled by a rabid dog.
—
After his thirty-ninth death Felix began to notice that his shadow had gotten bigger, deeper.
He stared down at it, in it, and at times felt as if something was staring back, swimming with that vast emptiness. He was unperturbed though. How worse could things get?
—
Felix has now died one hundred and sixty-eight times. He doesn't wake up in his room anymore. His apartment doesn't even exist now. The space where it once stood is now filled with… with…
Felix stares at the horizon as he sits atop the Space Needle, unaware of how he arrived there, as a piece of skin flakes from his hand a thin, black mist trickles out.
He leans forward.
He falls.
And as the wind bends around him, avoiding him like he's not meant to be, a tear spills from his eye, swimming up into the sky.
Felix has died two hundred and fifty-three times.
—
Felix finds himself once more standing in front of the old man.
"Care for a game?"
Felix does not answer his question, but poses one of his own.
"Are you afraid to die?"
The man ponders the question, but Felix gives him no time to answer.
His hand, once made of corporeal flesh but now mist-like in consistency, devours the surrounding light as Felix places it upon the man's face.
He blinks.
He screams.
His flesh rends itself from his form.
His blood sinks into the mist.
His bones turn to dust.
The screams cease to the wind, but echo in Felix's ears.
Felix pulls a gun from his pocket and presses a barrel to his head.
Bang.
His body falls. The wind doesn't bother to part. No tears rise or fall.
Death five hundred and seventy-two.
—
The Shadow can never be satiated.
The Shadow can never cease.
Time will flow, The Shadow will grow.
Felix will die, forever unknown.