Something a little different...

I thought I'd share this with you guys even though it isn't kink writing and has nothing to do with ABDL. It's a short story I published in a fantasy magazine a long time ago that actually won me a writing award. My goal was to write a story that goes full-circle, beginning and ending with the same event, and I'm really proud of this one. I hope you like it!

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DYING WITH STYLE

I’m dying. It’s happening suddenly, with no real warning. That’s the worst kind of death; the one that sneaks up on you and gets its cold fingers into you before your brain realizes what’s going on. It’s not so much the dying that bothers me, it’s the indignation. Call me a thespian, but I like my deaths to have a little flair and artistry. I don’t like it when they just happen.

This one is just happening to me. There’s a stab of pain somewhere in my guts that takes me by surprise, and I gasp. My spoon falls from my mouth and clatters as it hits the edge of my bowl. I feel the familiar dawning realization that I’ve been poisoned. Man, I hate this feeling. The soup, it must be the soup. She poisoned it. How’d she get this close without me noticing? I’ve been sloppy. I curse my own foolishness, even as I feel the darkness closing. The poison is doing its work; my vision blurs and my thoughts become muddled as my brain begins to starve for oxygen. I only have a moment of life left in me, enough time for one last conscious thought. Damn that woman, I’m going to kill her so fucki—

I awaken with a start. The quick deaths are already disorienting enough, and then there’s the subsequent time gap too. The details of my previous memories are slow to imprint on this new brain. I hope that’s not a sign of things to come. I’ve been stupid before, and when I’m stupid I don’t tend to live too long. Of course, when I’m very smart I tend to get cocky, and that can be just as dangerous.

I hold my tiny arms out and look at them. I’m dark-skinned this time. Cool. Usually I end up European or Asian, but I do like some variety sometimes. I wonder which country I’m in? I try to look at my surroundings, but I’m in some kind of bassinet or carriage and can’t see over its sides. I’m wrapped in soft, fine blankets, suggesting that I’m not in a third-world nation. Good. It’s easier to operate when I have access to some half decent technology.

How big was the gap this time? There’s no way to know, of course, not while I’m still this young. The gap is frustrating; all those lost years between death and reawakening wasted, a black void in my memory. I wonder what she’s been up to since she killed me. She’s been making the most of this gap, no doubt, enjoying who knows how many years of freedom from my interruptions. I hate her so much.

And I hate this part, the dull life of infancy. It’s like a prison, being awake and conscious within a body I can’t actually do anything with. I try my best to turn off my brain and coast through the next few weeks, months, years.

During my toddler period, I learn key facts. From the sound of the parents’ voices, I was likely reborn in America or Canada. The accent’s a bit familiar, so I’m thinking the Great Lakes area. I learn that I’m the youngest of three children for these parents, their first son. They named me Stephen; better than some of the names I’ve been given. But they call me Ste-Ste; they’re the baby-talk type, which annoys me. Even so, it’s a little thing. They seem kind enough, and I don’t find myself hating them as much as some of the parents I’ve been saddled with. But I learned a long time ago to not let myself get emotionally connected to the families I reincarnate into. That only leads to heartache later on.

As I grow older, I play the role of an innocent young child flawlessly. Nobody ever guesses that I’m more than I seem. I’ve mastered this part. Beg for new toys, pick fights with the other kids, cry a lot and pretend to be scared of monsters in the closet, occasionally do something stupid or embarrassing like running through the house naked, draw pretty pictures of mommy in crayon… they fall for that stuff every time.

Childhood drags on slowly. I start kindergarten, taking great pains to avoid being either the loudest or the most shy of the children. Never call attention to yourself and always blend in, that’s the secret to escaping notice. Oh, and I was right about my location. I’m in Wisconsin. That’s a shame, I really hate snow.

My remaining adolescence passes in a monotonous haze. Puberty hits hard, and now I have to endure those most eternal of childhood rites of passage: school dances, first kisses, math tests and acne treatments. The teenage years always suck, but I look forward to them anyway; they mean I’m that much closer to freedom. I have this life’s first sexual experience. The girl says it’s her first time but I know she’s lying, because she’s too competent at it. That’s okay; I’ve been around the block more than a few times myself, so I can’t really say anything.

The parents finally send me away to college. I give them lots of hugs and kisses and promises to call often. I kind of feel bad. They were great parents, all things considered. I know how sad they’ll be to lose their beloved Stephen. But it can’t be helped; they’re the unlucky family who drew the short straw this lifetime.

I pawn the notebook computer the parents gave me, as well as all the rest of my belongings, for a few thousand dollars; it's enough to buy a cheap car. I’ve got a lot more money buried in New Mexico, so I get ready for a road trip. At the last minute, I hastily write out a goodbye note for the parents and leave it on my dormitory bed. I don’t know what’s gotten into me; I’m not normally this sentimental. But they were better than many of the parents I’ve had over my lives, and I find myself feeling sorry for the pain and loss they’re about to experience at my disappearance.

As I drive along the Interstate in my beat-up clunker, I start thinking about her again. It’s funny how much I hate her, considering I owe her my immortality. I wonder if she’s started looking for me yet? Probably so, she plays the game cautiously. But after the indignity of that last death, I’m out for blood. The next time I kill her, I’m going to try my hardest to make her scream first.

After days of driving, I cross into New Mexico and make my way to my hidden cache buried deep in the desert. I’ve accumulated several lives’ worth of stolen money, antiques and valuables; lifetimes of practice have made me a damn good cat-burglar. I’ve got a lot of these hoards stashed away on every continent, my little insurance policies against having to start over every time from scratch. I really should set one up on the North American east coast at some point; the New Mexico hoard is a bit out of the way.

I have to abandon the car eventually, but I’ve brought supplies for desert survival. It’s a half-day hike to my treasure trove and I won’t need to be in the desert for long, but night can get uncomfortably cold out here on the sands. I’ve worn this path many times over many lives as I’ve brought my stolen treasures to be buried. I scarcely even need landmarks to find the spot anymore.

I arrive at the location and start digging under the hot sun. By evening, I’ve uncovered one of the wooden crates. I begin sorting the loot and bagging up the pieces I decide to withdraw. As I’m counting a stack of hundred-dollar bills, I hear a familiar click. I turn. Dammit! She’s here!

“Hello, brother,” she says in a thick accent. She’s still the Russian woman she was the last time I saw her, but the decades have not been kind to her. The shotgun she’s pointing at me rests easily in her trembling, liver-spotted arms.

“How did you find me?” I growl. She’s got her shotgun; I’ve got a small shovel. This probably isn’t going to end well for me.

She uses the barrel of the gun to gesture for me to stand. Another gesture orders me to drop my shovel. Great, now I’m completely unarmed. She flashes her dentures at me in a cocky smile. I want so badly to knock that smile off her face. “I’ve known about this particular trove of yours for, what, six or seven lives now? At least since the California Gold Rush. That’s the time you sealed me in that cave and left me to die of thirst, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Good times. I stuck around for a while and listened to you screaming for help,” I say. “Still, how did you know I would come here tonight?” I try to keep her talking. Stalling for time is my only chance now; maybe she’ll get distracted and I can jump her.

She tilts her wiry grey head. God, I hate seeing her look this old. It means it’s been a long time since I last killed her. “Ahh, that’s a lucky coincidence,” she says. “I actually came out here to rig one of your crates with explosives, but I saw a car abandoned out by the highway and figured you must be here.” She flashes that disgusting, self-satisfied grin at me again. “I have to give you credit, brother. You recovered from that last death faster than I would’ve expected.”

I grimace at her. “It doesn’t take me a decade to bounce back like it does you.”

“Yes, well, I suppose with practice I could be as good at dying as you are,” she says, mocking me.

I prop my foot on the edge of the wooden crate I had unearthed, trying to scan the contents for potential weapons without her noticing. “I offered you a way out once,” I say coolly. “Remember? I offered to stay away from you and leave you alone, if you would just do the same for me. It doesn’t have to be like this. We don’t have to keep murdering each other.” She hasn’t listened to reason in a millennium, and I know she won’t now; I’m only talking to buy time. It looked like there was a dagger or knife of some kind in the crate. Maybe I can get to it before she can get a shot off at me.

“It does have to be like this,” she snarls. “You stole part of my immortality from me, and every time I kill you I regain a bit more of it. I am only taking back what’s rightfully mine to begin with.”

“I didn’t steal anything!” I plead. “It’s not my fault your spell went bad. I was just a kid; I didn’t know what you were doing. I thought the chanting and arm-waving was some kind of game. I only wanted to play with you. You were my big sister, and I looked up to you. I didn’t know you were a witch. It wasn’t my fault.”

Just as I thought, my impassioned words mean nothing to her once again. She stares at me with hatred flashing behind her cataracts. “Your interruption broke the ritual,” she says, “and you absorbed part of the magic that I was conjuring. It was supposed to make me eternal and undying! Now I’m trapped in this endless cycle of death and rebirth. But if I kill you enough times, I can reclaim what you took from me. And I’ll finally be rid of you!” She leans forward and spits at me, letting the barrel of the shotgun lower slightly.

I spring into action, kicking the gun out of her hands before she can raise it again. She gasps and falls backward, landing in the sand with a crunch; I hope that was the sound of her hip breaking. I whirl and thrust my arm into the crate, grasping for the blade I’d seen before. I snatch it up and spin back around, preparing to slash her throat.

But I’m too slow; she has the shotgun again. She raises it with a toothy grin and fires at my chest. The shot rips through my torso, and immediately my vision goes blurry. The pain is indescribable. I can see my blood gushing out in bright scarlet spurts. I can’t breathe; my lungs have been perforated by buckshot. I fall to my knees.

I’m still holding the dagger. My vitality is fading, and I can feel death sinking its greedy fingers into me once more. I do the only thing I can; I hurl the blade at my sister with the last of my strength. I surprise and impress myself with my desperation shot; the blade flies true and sinks to the hilt into her neck with a satisfying wet squish. The spray of crimson from her wound is my consolation prize; she may have killed me again, but this time she’s going to die as well. The shock and hatred I see in her eyes as she gurgles for breath is beautiful to me.

I fall forward to the ground. I can feel the darkness closing in on my mind again. I’m dying once more, and soon I’ll have to start over. But this time, I go with a smile on my face. This time, my unexpected coup de grace took her by surprise; now we’re even for the poison incident.

But, more importantly, this death had style.