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deja vu extras

Immortal
​by hyrum tarrant

​
Ember snapped back to consciousness. 

Bright, searing pain coursed through the smoldering whirlwind of her mind. Every sound was muted by a ringing in her ears that wouldn’t stop. Most of her bones were probably broken. Like she cared. They would heal within a few hours, as they always did. Certain other things in recent memory, however, would take far longer to recover from.

Worse than the rage and agony was the guilt. It was her fault that all those people were dead. It was her fault that an ancient, unspeakable evil now lived in the mind of her friend, who was now the singular most powerful being on the planet. In her pride and arrogance, she had played directly into her enemies’ hands, and innocent people were paying for her mistakes. She, Ember, had singlehandedly brought about the doom of the human race while trying to prevent it. 

She struggled upright. Her wings trailed uselessly from her shoulders, limp and twisted, streaked with ash, their feathers bent and frayed. The stone where she landed was shattered by the force of the collision, and a slowly expanding circle of scorched earth and blackened grass spread from the point of impact. Even with supernatural strength and resilience, plus the ability to heal from any wound, she wasn’t sure how she had survived. 

Everyone naturally assumed that being the Phoenix was a gift. Sure, there was the regeneration factor, the wings, the power to command fire and light. But beyond that, there was the immortality. After each life ended, she would burn to ashes and be reborn as someone else, with her consciousness, memories, and soul intact. Ember didn’t know why people considered this to be a plus. Immortality meant the suffering was endless. Ordinary humans feared death. Ember feared living, over and over and over, eternally. She had experienced death more than any other living being, and she could remember it sometimes, when she was half awake. There was a feeling of rising, ascending, followed by a cold grip that pulled her down, down, down to the earth. She knew why she couldn’t leave. The Phoenix was cursed, bound to the world till doomsday. Over the eons, she had been worn down, like stone into dust, until there was no hope left.

    No. This life was different. This time, she had cared. She had made a difference. She had tried to do what was right, and almost succeeded. She had friends that really understood her. She wasn’t alone. She could fly over cities and forests and mountains, and smile when she looked down. After dark, endless years, she had hope. And she would suffer through anything and everything to keep it.
 
The ringing in her ears drowned out all thoughts, save one. They would regret leaving her alive. There would be no mercy. No restraint. No remorse. Only blood.

Doomsday was coming.

Honeybee
by 
ABIGAIL MCGHIE

I’m not sure how I ended up here. 
    It’s midnight, and I’m sitting in a diner with a plate of all day breakfast in front of me. Two wet eggs, burned bacon, arranged to look like a smiley face, which seems like a cruel joke to give to someone sitting in a highway-side diner in the early hours of the morning.
I must have been hungry when I ordered them, but now I’m far from it. To be fair, it’s not like it’s my fault they look disgusting.
    Tomorrow is my twenty five year high school reunion. Twenty five years, and what do I have to show for it? An unsuccessful business, an ex-wife, and kids who’d rather live in foster care than with me. 
    The sound of sirens passing on the highway gets louder as the door opens, and a woman steps in. I don’t recognize her until she says my name, and then I wonder how I ever forgot her.
    “John? Is that you?” 
    I’ve been thinking about this woman for twenty five years. Every night, every day. She stands out against the wallpaper with her bright pink hair and those tattoos creeping up her arms, like ivy over a tombstone. She had less of them back when I knew her, just a few stick-and-pokes, but now she looks like she could be the wall of a parking garage. They wrap around her wrists, her ankles, her throat, twisting lines that look almost like tire tracks. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been. 
    She looks more like a girl than a woman, really. Hell, she still looks exactly the same as the very last time I saw her. Her fingernails are still blue.
    “Oh my god, it is! How have you been?” she asks. Doesn’t she remember the terms we parted on? The selfish part of me (a part that is larger than I’d care to admit) is glad she doesn’t seem to.
    I force an imitation of her smile. “I’ve been… fine. I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” 
    “Yeah, neither did I. Back in town for the reunion?” 
“I never really left. I assume you’re here for it, though.” 
“Yep! I wouldn’t miss a chance to see what everyone’s gotten up to. I’ve already seen a few people around- did you know Rachel’s opening a show on Broadway next week? It’s been her dream since, like, 10th grade.” 
I don’t admit to her that I can’t remember who Rachel is. It’s not like she can expect me to remember every Tom, Dick, and Harry who crosses my path, right? 
She sits down across from me. “Are you waiting for someone? I’ll clear out if you are.” 
“No. It’s just me,” I say. 
She smiles, waving over the waitress, an elderly woman whose name tag dubs her Charlene. No wonder the eggs look like shit. “I’ll have what he’s having, ” she says, without a hint of irony. 
“I should warn you, it isn’t good,” I tell her once the waitress leaves.
“Well, have you tried it?” 
“Do I have to? Just look at them.” 
“You won’t eat some eggs just because they look kinda soggy, huh? They’re eggs,” she laughs, shaking her head. “You haven’t changed, you know. It’s nice. Everybody else is so different… Gets a little spooky, honestly.” 
Coming from anybody else I knew in high school, that would have been a compliment.
“You look so different, though. I keep expecting to look over and see this arrogant jock sitting across from me, but… I guess you haven’t been that way for a while. What have you been up to?” she asks, lounging across her seat like she owns the place. “Still play football?”
“No more football. I started running my old man’s car shop after he died.” 
“Man, I remember that place! I used to walk by on my way home from school. Is the huge tree still there, behind the parking lot?” 
“No. Some kids crashed their car into it a few years back… The town had to cut it down.” 
“What a shame. That thing was massive… must have been a hundred years old at least,” she sighed. “I don’t regret leaving, but it’s still bittersweet coming back. Things change when you aren’t paying attention. Time flies by, I guess.” 
Time has not flown for me. God, she looks just the same. 
“I’ve travelled the world, seen wonders of art, learned languages… I’ve lived a life, but it was time to come back. Nothing beats home, after all. I wasn’t even going to come, actually, but I was in Russia a few weeks ago-” 
Her voice fades into the background as I examine her for hints of malice. The longer she’s here, the more anxious I get. Sure, I wasn’t the nicest to her through school, but that’s just how it works! If you’re not on top, you’re at the bottom. It’s not my fault she couldn’t handle the pressure. It’s not my fault she’d cut the brakes.
“Am I boring you?” she asks, nudging my leg with a cold foot. I could swear she was wearing shoes earlier.
“Of course not. Sorry. Just… wrapped up in my thoughts,” I say. 
“S’alright. This weekend has got everyone in an introspective mood, I guess. Twenty five years, huh?” she stops, seeming lost in space for a moment. “I thought I’d be stuck here forever, you know. Especially after what you did.” 
My head snaps up, but she continues. 
“I thought I’d be stuck here forever, looking over your shoulder, watching you live your painfully ordinary life, never able to have one of my own.”
“... What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” 
“You didn’t say anything, I thought you didn’t remember-!”
“Of course I do. How could I forget the man who made my life hell?” 
“Come on, that’s not fair. I’ve always regretted it, you know that! I’m still here talking to you, aren’t I?” I say, bristling. This isn’t my fault. 
“Nothing ever was, was it? Tell me, do you even remember my name?” She asks, tilting her head to the side innocently. 
“Of course I remember your name! I haven’t stopped thinking about you in twenty five years!” 
“What is it, then?” 
I open my mouth to say it, say the name I obviously remember (because how could I forget? How could I forget the blood in the grass, the fingernails turning blue, the sirens? I can’t forget.) and I come up empty. It’s not my fault. It was so long ago. They never put her name at that spot on the highway, either. Just a teddy bear. 
Somebody crashed into that, too. My fingers itch towards my car keys. 
She leans across the table towards me. The eggs tip onto the floor.
“Delilah,” she says, “my name was Delilah.” 
“Why are you doing this to me?” 
“Because you deserve it.” 
It wasn’t my fault. 

The door slams shut as the waitress comes up to the table and gives me a plate of food. “That’ll be 8.99,” she says, her voice monotone. She’s an elderly woman, whose name tag dubs her Charlene. 
I’m not sure how I ended up here. 
    It’s about midnight, and I’m sitting in a diner with a plate of all day breakfast in front of me. Two wet eggs, burned bacon, arranged to look like a smiley face, which seems like a cruel joke to give to someone sitting in a highway-side diner in the early hours of the morning. 
    The sound of sirens passing on the highway gets louder as the door opens again, and a woman steps in. I don’t recognize her until she says my name, and then I wonder how I ever forgot her. 

Who's Really The Crazy One?
by Sam Harthun

For over a year now I've been working as the doc’s assistant. When I say the doc, I mean Doctor Ziegler. She’s a world renowned doctor for the mentally ill, the best of the best and I am her assistant. After I had finished my degree in political science for university I set out to find a job and found the position as her assistant on the internet. I signed up, though I doubted I could get the spot. But to my surprise a week later I had been accepted. I had to fly out from the UK to the US in Washington DC and rented an affordable apartment close by to my future workplace. I felt ready, unconquerable and fired up for this massive step in my life. I met all of the staff and of course the Doc herself and clicked well. So now we flash forward a year up to now and I don’t even know what to feel anymore. All of my ambitions are gone and I’ve stayed here longer than I should. What I thought might be an easy path across a big river was really a mistake, slipping into the riptide of an ocean. An asylum isn’t your average work space and it really messes with your head with what you’ll see. There’s of course the people who you would normally consider crazy, the mentally ill, the depressed, the insane etcetera. But I think what truly scares me is my own colleagues and the asylum itself. The asylum brings out the worst in you and this goes both ways for both sides, staff and patients. Patients feel trapped in this dark yet white building and a lot of the staff don’t understand the patients as actual human beings. The guards even enjoy beating the patients when they get the chance. Even the doc who could be looked at like an idol was a monster herself. I’ve seen her use hypnosis on patients who would be considered a special case. While you may wonder what’s so wrong with that, hypnosis used on the mentally ill is like poison to the brain. It’s practically giving them a seizure. And for those with the worst of the worst, it’s really just torture. I think what really fucked with me the most was that I never said anything to anyone. I never tried to stop people or tell the world what was going on, I just watched. So it was on this cold winter night that I decided to quit my job. I’d work my last hours and hand in a resignation letter which I've had sitting on my desk for two months now. One more patient and that was it. I met with the doc as per usual in the white room, or as the docs patients would call it, her torture chamber. This is the room where her hypnotic torture would undergo with the special patients. Today the man brought in, he was… oddly different from the rest. He had pitch black hair which stretched down to his shoulders making a mesmerizing art piece with his white robes and bags under his eyes. He was tall, maybe 6’4, a staggering height compared to mine. He looked calm when he entered, almost lifeless. His pupils didn’t even move around to examine the room. He was just blankly staring almost like he didn’t even have a soul. The guard sat him down on the chair and strapped him in and the docs process began. She pulled out a golden pendulum and swung it infront of his face, back in fourth in a slow motion, left to right. He didn’t even budge, his eyes didn’t even move. Nothing happened for over 40 seconds until he moved his eyes towards me. His gaze lay empty, as goosebumps appeared along my arms. He got up from the chair, as if there were no restraints and held the doc up in the air with one arm, strangling her. His gaze lay fixed on me, as if he was waiting for something. I couldn’t move at all, I was petrified. Even the guard had no idea what to do, eyes wide in fear. The doc stopped struggling and fell limp to the floor. The black haired man looked at me again, as if he was disappointed. He turned towards the guard and picked him up with nothing but his hand and walked towards me. He shoved the guard in front of my face and our eyes met. I didn’t really know who he was, I’d only talked to him a few times. His name was Barry, he had kids. That’s what I could remember. Though he couldn’t speak I could hear through his eyes, his desperate calls for help. He clawed at the black haired man’s hand helplessly as tears formed around his eyes and fell onto the white floor slowly. Soon he stopped clawing and got dropped on the floor. I looked at the black haired man again with fear wondering if I was next. Then he spoke. He asked why I did nothing, why did I stand there? I was a bit taken back but with a shaken voice I told him that I simply couldn’t. I couldn’t move at all. He walked towards me, towering over me and spoke the words I would never forget. “Have you ever considered that maybe you were the crazy one?” I couldn't answer. The words to answer escaped me. The man sighed and walked out of the room, calmly closing the door to the white room. I collapsed onto my knees, succumbing to the fear riddled in my body like knives to the nerves. My colleagues found me later with the docs body and the guards and I was immediately sent to court. No matter what I said no one believed me. Apparently we never even had that man as a patient. He never even existed. Ironically I was sent to an asylum, where I’d spend the rest of my life with a sentence that stretched out for 63 years. In my time that I was there I experienced overwhelming deja vu of the black haired man. Not because he showed up, but because my doctors did. They certainly didn’t look the same but they had the same feel. The same cold air, the same mentality, the same feeling of them wanting something from me that I could never deliver to them. Why this happened to me I’ll never know. Maybe it was a punishment from god, maybe from the devil, maybe from both. All I can say now that I’m here, in the white room with my role reversed please listen to my words when I say to call something out when something happens. Do something, anything, don’t stand there. Help someone. Save someone. Or hey, maybe don’t listen to me at all. I am crazy after all…

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