Seven Deaths

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own, and that was the first time I realized I was capable of feeling fear.

No, the reflection in the broken glass was that of a woman in her thirties, short but muscular, curly black hair, nose piercing. She had been my sixth victim. No, seventh.

My red-stained hands went limp in the bathroom sink as the lights flickered briefly. I couldn't even blink.

Apparently it isn't common knowledge that a murderer could reincarnate as his or her victims if they unanimously agree to it in the afterlife. At least I didn't know this until that moment, as I stared, mouth agape, at the mirror containing the image of the last life I ended.

"All seven of us won't kill you once," her reflection said, expressionless and lifeless even as her lips moved. "You'll kill yourself seven times."

When she vanished from the mirror, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the ground in that tiny bathroom. I would have pinched myself to see if I was dreaming, but I even feel pain in my dreams. But even if I doubted reality then, I can't now.

I'm already in my fourth victim's body.

I'll spare you the boring details of these pitiful humans' lives, but yes, I live through their entire lives. I suppose they want me to feel everything they felt and lose everything they lost. They didn't really think that through, however, because I only despise them more now, and everyone they knew. Though I die their deaths, it doesn't bring them back. So in a way, I still win. Right?

That's what I tell myself, but now as I walk down the sidewalk under the moonlight as Victim #4, anticipating my killer self preparing to find me any second now, I do feel the slightest hint of guilt. Or maybe it's just fear. I don't really want to be drowned in a bathtub tonight.

The past three lives were all women in their twenties. Melony was the first. She smiled a lot. Too much. She deceived me with that smile, giving it away like it cost her nothing. No one had ever made me feel so important, until I observed more. She smiled at everyone, even at strangers, at losers, and at the people who acted like I didn't exist. What a fake!

Her murder was clumsy and reckless, as it was my first to commit. It went by slower than I had remembered, once I experienced it from Melony's body. Just enough air could pass through my throat to not die, but to want to already as my former self had tightened the handmade noose around my neck. Then it was over, and I was born again the following year as Eva, victim number two.

Eva was also strangled, but she put up more of a fight, so blunt force measures were taken. As Eva, I remember seeing my original self enter the basement with the noose. When he approached, I slapped him and ran for the door. He, my old, unbothered self, had no hesitation as he grabbed a bat by the door and incapacitated me with blow after blow. Then I felt the rope pulled around my neck, and as all the color faded from the musty room, I think I even chuckled. They really thought I would regret my actions after being on the receiving end, but now I get to see them come to their brutal ends again, those despicable nobodies.

Right, I have no regrets, you see?

I shiver as a brisk wind picks up while I keeping walking, through a park now, serenaded by a mournful owl nearby. The trees don't sway though, so the chill must be from within.

Ah yes, so victim number three. Her name was Joy. Ironic, because after living through her childhood, I'd say it was even as depressing as mine. But at least she still had one of her parents with her.

Maybe if I had known more of the similarities I shared with her, I'd have put off making her my next prey just to see how she'd turn out. It could have been more entertaining perhaps. See, the ones like us who have to do whatever it takes to survive, we are the strong ones. She could've been superior, like me. But all I had seen of her was her weakness. The weeks leading up to her murder, I had frequented the café where she worked. Either nervous or clumsy, she made many mistakes, and one day her boss had had enough of it and fired her on the spot. I had hoped to see anger and passion in her eyes. Instead they welled up with tears and she broke down while she cleaned the coffee spill on the ground. So disappointing. And pathetic. She didn't deserve to survive.

She was predictably easy, and therefore unsatisfying, to kill. I needed a more challenging target next time. That brings me to where I am now.

I walk quickly, head low, hands in pockets. I'm currently victim number four, a man this time, nearly thirty. Single currently, even though women would practically flock around this guy to gain his attention. Cole was his name, my name at the moment, and I had the unfortunate experience of writing his diary. He wanted "something deeper" in a relationship, whatever that means. Anyway, maybe it bought him some time by rejecting so many girls' advances; I probably would have killed him sooner if he enjoyed his popularity any more than he did.

This man was blessed with a handsome body, tall with brown hair that looked good without having to try. I have enjoyed this life the most so far, and it's for the same reason I despised this guy. I wonder how all my victims feel now, realizing how much their plan failed. Dying a few deaths might be worth the attention I've gotten just in this one life as Cole. They've been spitting on their own graves, giving me so much to enj--

BAM!

I'm face down on the concrete before I realize it while a splitting pain soars through the back of my head. A warm sensation oozes down my neck, and I'm familiar enough with the scent to know it's blood. Something is pulled over my head and I can't see anything. My body goes numb, but I have the feeling I'm being dragged by someone. I'm feeling tired now....

***

I'm in a vehicle. A van I think. My aching body rolls to the side as the van makes a left turn, and my eyes flutter open. There's a sack over my head, but I can barely see through the mesh. Yes, I'm in the back of a van, and I can see the back window. Well not really, but I can see bright spots pass my vision as we drive by streetlights. We hit a speed bump, and the pain in my head flares up again. I might vomit, unless I can fall asleep again.

***

Drip...Drip...Drip....

My body jolts awake. I'm already sweating.

Wait, it's not sweat. I look up and above me is a faucet, slowly dripping small drops of water onto my forehead. I look around me and try to move, but my arms, hands, and feet are tied. I'm lying in a bathtub.

I rest my head back again and sigh. How could I forget already. This is the guy I drowned.

***

I remind myself to take deep breaths, but it's hard when there's tape over my mouth.

Dina. That's who I am now. Red-head, which is new. Rock climber. I have a boyfriend of three years, and I know he planned to propose tonight. I now know what it feels like to fall in love.

But tonight I'll die again, by my own past hand.

As I was drowning in the tub as Cole, I pondered my helpless plight. No matter how much I fight against my murderous self, I lose in the end each time. I am incapable of changing the events of my victims' lives.

But maybe I haven't been trying hard enough. That was my last thought before dying as Cole. Now, after twenty-seven years of my fifth victim's life, I'm ready to challenge the rules of this curse again.

I sit, leaning against the wall of the basement, feet tied and hands behind my back. What my killer self doesn't know is that I, Dina currently, have gained some special skills through rock climbing. Even with my hands tied behind me I can tell what kind of knots were used and how to loosen them. I untie the ropes but keep my hands hidden. Now I wait.

It's quiet and cold. A neighbor's dogs bark in the distance. I almost start to doze off....Thump.

Finally, I hear footsteps overhead. They move toward the basement stairs, and I hear the door creak open. Light from the kitchen upstairs seeps in and dust swirls upward. Slow footsteps make their way down the stairs. I watch as my old self rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs and makes direct eye contact with me. His eyes are lit up with anticipation, like a predator about to enjoy its next kill. I match his expression.

He walks toward me then kneels down. A knife glimmers as he extends it in my direction.

"I normally don't use knives right away, but thought I'd try something new this time. Forgive me, I'm experienced in other methods." He peels the tape off my mouth. "Go ahead and get out any protests."

"I know," I whisper, not expecting my voice to feel so weak.

He raises an eyebrow.

I try again, more forceful this time. "I know you are inexperienced. You prefer strangling your victims, and you tried drowning one once but didn't enjoy it as much."

My past self leans back as his brows furrow. His confusion gives me my opportunity and I take it.

I drop the useless ropes behind me and punch him in the nose. He reels back while I lunge forward and strike him again. I hold nothing back as I rage against him, but with my ankles still tied, he easily shoves me off of himself.

He jumps to his feet, kicks me onto my stomach, and stabs his knife straight into my upper back. I gasp for air as he yanks the weapon out of my back and stabs me again. And again.

And again.

***

Hi, my name's Roy. Thirty-five. Married with two kids. You know the drill.

I'm starting to wonder what will happen after all seven of my victims' lives come to an end. I hadn't thought that far before, but now that I'm up to number six now, my chances of breaking out of this terrible punishment are running out. Not that it wouldn't be fair, but....

But I kind of like my life now. I married my dream wife. My kids are the most precious in the world. I get to make movies for a living. I love people, and people love me, too. Yes, I am loved, too.

And my original self will ruin all of that if I don't stop it. That's all I can think about as I wait just outside a dark and cluttered alleyway. I'm not waiting for my old self to drag me here. I'm meeting him here.

I check my watch. 12:30 AM. If my memory is correct--and it has faded a bit after all these lifetimes--my killer self was less motivated this particular night and chose a seemingly easy target. He chose Roy, my current self, because Roy had been drinking with some buddies and was a bit tipsy walking past this alley alone. I decided not to drink tonight, as Roy, but to fake intoxication and oblivion. So here I stand, leaned against a tall building, holding a half empty beer bottle. Waiting for myself.

And there he is. Walking down the empty sidewalk, in my direction. I feign unawareness as he approaches. He stops, and I finally acknowledge him.

"Evening, sir." I gesture with the bottle in my hand. "Can I help you?"

My old self looks me over. I know he's sizing me up, calculating how hard it would be to take me out. It won't be as easy as he thinks, that's for sure.

He looks back at me and flashes the most innocent and sad smile I've ever seen. I had forgotten how good I was at acting back then. He bows slightly.

"I'm sorry, I'm just looking for my dog. He got away and I think I saw him run down this way," he looks down the alley, "so I'm trying to catch him."

He looks back at me. "Any chance you could help me? It could save his life."

I look down the alley. That's where he kills Roy. But tonight I'll change that. I look back at him, trying to hide my disgust for his sickening charade. I stand up from the wall and smile broadly.

"Of course, my friend. The poor creature is probably waiting to be found!" I gesture for him to enter the alley. He hesitates a moment, then goes in before me. I follow closely behind.

We shine our phone flashlights as we walk deeper into the alleyway. We step over trash, around dumpsters, and in puddles of recent rain. I watch my old self walking ahead of me, surely contemplating how he'll attack me first. No matter, though; I've got the advantage of already having a plan.

I look down at my beer bottle. I rotate my hand so I'm holding it upside down. Then I look at the back of his head. I raise the bottle above me....

CRASH!

I shatter the glass bottle against his temple. He crumples to the ground and I waste no time to follow up with punches and kicks. He shields his face and body with his arms while trying to kick me away from him.

As I go to strike his head again, I see him pull an object from his pant pocket. I realize it's a knife just as he swings it toward my head. I block his arm just in time for the blade to just graze jaw. The weapon flies onto the ground, only few feet away. My gut tells me to stick with fists, but it'll be faster with a knife. I shove my old self before going for the blade. Just as I grab its handle, I feel his arms wrap around my neck and squeeze.

I struggle to escape under his full body weight. Even with the knife, I can't maneuver around to use it against him, but I don't want to risk giving it him. I try to move as much as possible, but his grip only tightens. I'm quickly running out of breath. This can't happen again. There has to be a way out.

I'm seeing stars now, little golden specks spawning in my periphery. My body moves slower.

If only I could see my family one last time....

My arms go limp, all my strength used up. My old self tightens his hold even more, and my head feels like it will explode.

Maybe there is no escape from this curse.

I close my eyes for the last time, once again.

***

Have you ever cried so much, the tears just run out? You sit there, staring into space, numb from the exhaustion of fighting your thoughts and emotions for so long?

That's me right now, sitting on the ground in a tiny bathroom, arms wrapped around my knees. I've been kidnapped already, but instead of restraining my limbs, my original self just locked me in this bathroom. He wants me to be a challenge. It's more thrilling for him that way.

Part of me wants to end it before he even returns. I don't want to give him a good fight. I just want to get it over quickly. I can't change the outcome, anyway.

But Ruth didn't know that when she was killed. And I'm Ruth now, and I have her strength, and her vigor, and her hope for brighter futures. I'm short but muscular. Got curly black hair. A nose piercing I got with my sister. In my thirty-four years of life, I have lived and loved well, through thick and thin. I helped raise three younger siblings while our mom battled disease. I worked full time through college for a degree I'd never use. I served in the military for eight years, and lived in three different countries. I fell in love once and had my heart broken. I fell in love again, and lost that one to a car crash. I attended four weddings in the past year, and three funerals. I was there for my niece's birth, who is named after me. Last week, I was interviewed for my dream job in the fashion industry. Next week is my birthday. As well as my cat's.

And tonight my story comes to an end. All because of one pathetic excuse for a human being I used to be, seven lifetimes ago. All because of that.

But just as I have lived well, I will end well. No one will be able to question that my fight was furious and devastating. Especially my original, psychopathic self.

I stand up slowly on shaky legs and take a deep breath. I clench my fists and roll my shoulders a couple times. Then I look into the mirror above the sink. I look at myself.

What a sad, beautiful thing.

The buzzing overhead light is the only sound I can hear. The off-white walls seem to close in more. I look at the door, where the missing door knob leaves a gaping hole. I look back at the mirror. My reflection looks more determined than I feel. If only I could--

Bang Bang!

I jump as my old self knocks loudly outside the bathroom door.

"I'm going to open this door, back away from it and don't try anything," his muffled voice taunts me.

I step away from the door, trying to calm my shaking body. My old self pulls on the door, but it takes a few yanks to unstick it. He finally lets it swing open, and he enters with no expression.

I automatically retreat further. He crosses his arms and rubs his chin as if pondering what to have for dinner.

"I normally choose how I'll kill my prey, but what if we try something new this time." He leans against the sink as I step further back until I touch the bathtub. I feel around behind me, locking my hand on a soap bar. He continues his theatrics.

"Say you gave me your preference on how you want to die. Then we play a game to determine which method we'll go with?"

I hold the soap bar in my hand behind me. "So I can choose?"

"You can suggest," he points at me. "I'm still in control."

"Okay." I take a breath. "What are my options?"

"First, there's--" Before he can continue, I throw the soap bar straight at his face. As soon as it hits him I slam my body into him, clawing at his face.

I try to get my body around to other side of him, but he wraps his arms around me and tries to lift me off my feet. I press my feet against the wall and push off of it, smashing his head into the mirror and shattering it. He drops me and I run out of the bathroom.

I frantically scan the living room for an object. I hear him groaning as he tries to recover from the surprise attack. I don't have much time.

In the corner, on a lamp stand, I see a sheathed knife. Just as I take off toward it I get yanked back by the wrist. He's behind me, trying to restrain both my arms. He hits my head once and grips me tighter, but I throw my head back and hit him in the nose. His hands release me and I run to the lamp stand and collapse before it. I grab the sheath and turn around. My killer self stares me down with murderous rage and a bloody nose. Without looking away form him I unsheathe the knife and toss the sheath away. I grip the weapon tightly.

He lunges toward me and swings with his long arms. I duck and dodge the first blow, but the second one knocks me halfway across the room. I blindly swing the knife in his direction until I can upright myself.

He attacks again, shoving me against the wall even as my knife slashes his arms. He grabs my throat and slams me against the wall again. I continue swinging the knife.

Finally, it makes contact with his arms again, cutting into his bicep, and he pushes away from me. He inspects his wounds and I try to catch my breath. He looks back at me shakes his head.

"You'll pay for that," he says, glaring.

I gasp for breath as I respond, "Oh, I have been."

He shakes his head again as he walks toward a set of drawers. I keep my knife aimed at him, anticipating any move he could make. He opens the drawer and pulls out a second knife. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

I act before I can think. Leading with the knife, I go for his neck, slashing through air and occasionally flesh. He counters with his own swipes, and I am so overwhelmed with rage that I feel no pain, even as his knife cuts into my body again and again.

I'm able to grab his hair and I yank his head downward, but I fall with him. We're on the ground, bleeding and screaming as we fight to the death. I find an opening and nick his face with my blade. This catches him off guard enough for me to shove his knife-wielding hand away and thrust my own knife into his abdomen. I hold it there while looking into his emotionless eyes. My old eyes.

He pauses and looks down at his wound. Then up at me. His lips move as if he wants to say something. My curiosity causes me to wait. What could he say to me in this moment?

But I have fallen for his trick. He takes my hesitation as his opportunity to stab me in the chest. Right in the heart.

My grip on him loosens as I fall backward. I'm on my back now, but everything is spinning. Where did he go?

There he is. My blurry vision catches his outline. He pulls the knife out of his stomach and tries to get to his feet. I see him crawl toward the bathroom on all fours, mumbling things I can't understand.

I cough suddenly, and blood runs down my chin. Now I'm starting to feel pain. It's everywhere now. In my chest, in my arms, in my head. I try to scream, but I only hear myself moan. Tears fall from my eyes and mix with the blood.

I tried. I really tried.

And I'm done now. I lived seven wonderful, tragic lives. I'm tired now. I want to sleep. I want to....

I turn my head toward the bathroom again. I see my old self sitting on the floor, hands on his stomach, blood staining the ground. That image is stuck in my mind, and it slowly fades away. Darkness shrouds my vision, or maybe a bright light, and all the pain leaves as I close my eyes for the last time.

***

There's blood everywhere. It's too much. I've already gone in and out of consciousness three times. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, trying to stop the bleeding from my abdomen, but it's too late, I know it. The stupid wench, she ruined everything. I look over at her body lying in a pool of blood in the living room. She's definitely dead now.

I look back down at my wound. I haven't cried in years, but the pain brings water to my eyes. What a failure today was.

I look upward, hoping a new view would distract from the pain. My eyes land on the bathroom mirror. It's broken now. I feel like touching it for some reason....

I slowly, agonizingly make my way to my feet using the counter to pull myself up. Once I'm on my feet, I look into the mirror, but what I see feels like death itself.

The reflection in the mirror isn't my own, and this is the first time I realize I'm capable of fear.

No, the reflection in the broken glass is that of a woman, in her thirties, short but muscular, curly black hair, nose piercing. She had been my sixth victim. No, seventh maybe?

My red-stained hands go limp in the bathroom sink as the lights flicker briefly. I can't even blink.

Her lips move, lifeless and expressionless, as she tells me that a murderer can reincarnate as his or her victims if they unanimously agree to it in the afterlife. I stare at her image, mouth agape.

"All seven of us won't kill you once. You'll kill yourself seven times."

Suddenly she vanishes from the mirror. My legs give out and I collapse to the ground. I would pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming, but I even feel pain in my dreams.