[Reader Discretion:Semi-Immortal explores mature and challenging themes, including trauma, mental health struggles, violence, and discrimination. It contains scenes that may be distressing to some readers. Please proceed with caution and prioritize your well-being.]
⋯
The room breathed with the last sighs of day, a dim sanctuary where the setting sun, filtered through a spiderweb of cracks in the windowpane, painted the peeling wallpaper with strokes of bruised apricot. A haphazard nest of mismatched blankets and pillows swallowed the mattress on the floor, littered with the ghostly remains of a junk food pilgrimage: crumpled crisp packets lay scattered like fallen soldiers, alongside half-eaten chocolate bars gleaming dully in the fading light, and unopened fizzy drinks pulsed with an artificial sheen. Violet had been a weight against Ivy's shoulder, her gaze soft and unfocused, heavy with unspoken words. Now, she sat up, the air between them thick with a clinging warmth, as a tender question hung between them like a fragile thread.
"How did you become a Semi-Immortal?" Ivy's quiet question sliced through the air, a delicate blade severing the comfortable quiet.
The question hung suspended, a shimmering, malevolent thing that invaded the space between them, probing wounds that refused to heal.
Violet's lip trembled, a fleeting betrayal she quickly suppressed with a swallow. The light seemed to drain from her eyes, which had moments before sparkled with an easy conviviality. The colour in her face receded, like the tide pulling away to reveal a barren shore.
"I... I told you," Violet murmured, forcing a tremulous smile as her hand reached for the scattered snacks. Her fingers, betraying her composure, fumbled with the cold metal of a fizzy drink before finally popping the tab, the sharp, metallic hiss of escaping pressure echoing in the tense silence. "I already told you how I died."
Ivy didn't flinch, her gaze unwavering, a cool flame in the fading light. Her voice remained eerily calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging in Violet's eyes. "No. You told me how you lost your first two Semi-Immortal lives. Not your first death. Not the one that brought you back."
Violet's practiced smile wavered, the edges fraying like a worn photograph. She raised the aluminium can, its condensation slick against her trembling fingers, but before the cool metal met her lips, Ivy's hand, gentle yet firm, intercepted.
"Violet," Ivy murmured, the single word laced with a plea.
A flicker of polite frustration tightened the muscles around Violet's mouth, hardening her features. She pivoted, attempting to meet Ivy's intensity head-on, but her shoulders remained hunched defensively. "Why does it even matter, Ivy? What's the point of dredging all that up? It's in the past now."
With deliberate calm, Ivy relieved Violet of the drink, setting it soundlessly on the floor. Then, she reached for Violet's hand, her touch feather-light as her thumb traced gentle circles across her knuckles.
"Because I want to understand you," Ivy said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've lived together for almost a month now, and we still don't know each other—not really. But this curse we share, this Semi-Immortality... it binds us, whether we like it or not. And yet, I still have no idea what you went through to end up here. You chose the streets. You chose to live with a stranger. That's not nothing. I just want to know why."
Violet's gaze dropped to where her fingers nervously intertwined, the skin around her brows knitting together in a silent plea for absolution. A shadow of guilt danced across her features. Ivy had been vulnerable before—openly grieving her parents' deaths. It was a moment seared into Violet's memory, a moment when she'd been struck by the sheer, breath-taking courage it took to be so exposed.
A shaky breath shuddered through her, her eyelids fluttering shut for a long, suspended moment. When they finally opened, the reluctance etched on her face was undeniable. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod followed, barely a movement, but a surrender nonetheless.
"Okay," she breathed, the word a fragile whisper, barely audible in the space between them. "I'll tell you."
⋯
It all started with a name.
"Violet." This name, a fragile bloom in itself, embodies a sense of gentle humility and subtle elegance, while also hinting at a profound well of genuine, pure love just waiting to be unveiled.
She had claimed it long ago, a secret vow whispered in the silence of her heart, before any tongue, even her own, could give it voice.
It was born from a snatched fragment of joy, an overheard melody of laughter echoing from the sun-drenched kitchen of her childhood home. A casual intimacy shared between her father and sister. Her sister, her hands stained with earth, her heart brimming with the same love for flowers that their mother possessed. Her reward for excelling in her exams had been a collection of flower seeds. Among them, the violet bloomed first – tiny bursts of vibrant purple, tender and delicate. It was her sister's favourite colour. Her sister had named it 'Hope', after a friend she knew at school.
Her father beamed with a warm, radiant smile that lit up his face and crinkled the edges of his eyes, a joyful expression meant solely for celebrating her sister's triumphs.
Violet had never experienced the comforting glow of that smile directed at her. However, when her sister inquired whether their father thought the violet she nurtured was beautiful, he revealed the affection he held for that flower, even declaring it to be his favourite.
So, she took the name of that flower, like a cloak woven from borrowed light.
Not as an act of defiance or a rebellious cry.
But as a fragile seed of hope, planted in the barren soil of her heart. A desperate, aching hope that if she could embody something beautiful, something nurtured by her sister and admired by her father, then perhaps, finally, he would truly see her. Perhaps, if she became the violet, she would finally be worthy of his love.
But he never did share that loving bond with her. A bond he seemed to share so easily with Violet's siblings.
Born in the UK, she arrived last in a trio, into a home ruled by the iron fist of obedience and the relentless pursuit of perfection. Her father, stern and steeped in the traditions of his conservative Southern European upbringing, saw her as his only son—a son who would carry on the family name. A son who would never wear his sister's skirts or steal make-up from his mother's vanity.
The day he saw her—wearing her friend's uniform, walking down the street with a shy smile and messy eyeliner—was the day he stopped pretending to tolerate her.
He seized her, a brutal hand clamping around her arm, and yanked her into the cold leather interior of the car.
The journey home unfolded in a chilling silence, thick with unspoken condemnation.
He hauled her through the threshold of their house, a ragdoll in his grip, and imprisoned her within the suffocating confines of the hallway closet.
The space was meagre, the walls slick with a clammy dampness, and utterly devoid of light. The stagnant air hung heavy with the musty odour of forgotten footwear and encroaching mildew.
Initially, a raw, animalistic scream tore from her throat, a desperate plea against the encroaching darkness.
Then, the screams dissolved into whimpers, transforming into frantic begging, promises offered to empty air in exchange for release.
Finally, the begging gave way to a silent torrent of tears, a hopeless weeping that soaked the measly fabric beneath her.
But no one came, the heavy silence unbroken by any sign of salvation.
Nothing to eat or drink emerged—no bread, no water—only the unyielding emptiness that reflected the surrounding silence.
By day three, tremors seized her limbs with each ragged breath. Her throat, a parched wasteland, silenced any attempt at speech. Her body, surrendering, began the slow descent into shutdown. Movement became a forgotten luxury, thought a flickering ember. Shame, a searing brand, intensified with each betraying release of her bladder, a sharper pain than the gnawing hunger.
In the final hours, delirium painted vivid illusions: a familiar creak of the door, the phantom warmth of her sister's embrace, a solace spun from the threads of desperation.
"Vince! Oh my God! Call an ambulance! Quick!"
But the sound wasn't real, only a desperate, hollow plea. She simply couldn't bear the thought of fading into nothingness, alone. She couldn't accept that she had been utterly, heartlessly abandoned.
But inevitably, Violet died alone in that cold, dark closet.
Her body would later vanish, disintegrated by the Semi-Immortal awakening. Her siblings would eventually discover only dust and the soiled, tattered uniform she left behind.
And reported her as missing.
Two months bled into an eternity, until finally, her eyes flickered open in the Unbound Realm. A glacial chill seeped into her bones, a stark contrast to the life she last knew. Confusion clouded her mind, a thick fog obscuring memories. Terror, raw and primal, clawed at her throat, a silent scream trapped within.
This was no celestial reward, no fiery punishment. Instead, a desolate expanse, a purgatory of the soul.
It was as if she were stranded between worlds, forgotten by the divine. Or perhaps, a darker purpose awaited her, a reason for this unwanted rebirth, this cursed Semi-Immortality.
Re-entering the mortal coil, a desperate longing ignited within her. Safety, a haven from the unknown. Warmth, a balm to her frozen spirit. Companionship, the absence of which had carved a hollow ache in her chest. After what felt like an eternity of solitude, even a fleeting presence was a beacon in the dark.
Driven by this yearning, she sought solace at a friend's doorstep.
But the welcome she received was far from the comfort she craved. The mother's face, contorted in a mask of abject horror, burned itself into Violet's memory. The single, stark number etched into her skin—15—was the catalyst. Banished again, within minutes, she was left to face her cursed existence alone.
The number 15 echoed in the hollows of her mind, a spiritual dissonance. A number she now associated with indulgence and temptation, influenced by the harsh comments directed at her by others. It felt like a cruel indictment, a brand that screamed "lost" and "cursed" far louder than any spoken word. It was a weight, an anchor dragging her down into the abyss of her despair.
She drifted, a ghost through a world that refused to acknowledge her. Sleep offered no solace, food held no appeal, and hope had long since withered into dust.
Then, through the haze of her misery, she saw them.
Scavengers, the volunteers of the Whitehorse Agency, moving with purpose. They distributed pamphlets, their laughter mingling with the everyday sounds of the street, offering a stark contrast to the despair that clung to Violet like a shroud.
Summoning a strength she barely possessed, she approached them, a silent plea etched on her face. "Help," she croaked, the word rough and familiar on her tongue.
One of them turned, a genuine smile gracing their features. "You're safe now," they said, their voice a soothing balm. A Cyborg—the designation for the agency's desk workers and emergency responders—appeared, moving with quiet efficiency. Without a word, they offered a blanket and a warm drink. Their movements were precise, almost robotic, as they processed her, already inputting her details into the system. Within moments, they would be delving into the database of missing children, searching for a flicker of recognition, a digital echo of her lost existence. Searching for any trace of Violet, within the last 2-3 months.
Her image disappeared from the digital memorials of the missing, a ghost wiped away by a harsh mandate. The system had progressed, reassigning her status from lost to a stark, impersonal 'deceased.'
But within the clinical halls of the agency, death was merely a transition. They revealed a startling reality – the extraordinary science of Semi-Immortality, intricately linked to the operations of the Whitehorse Agency. They assured her that on her eighteenth birthday, she would find a refuge; a place to belong, wisdom to gain, and a future that was finally attainable.
They told her the truth. About Semi-Immortality. About the system. About how, when she turned eighteen, they'd give her a home. An education. A future.
As she recounted disjointed memories of a past life, one in which she was a brother rather than a sister, the agency workers eventually inquired about her name. She opted to spare her family from the unsettling reality of her transformation, allowing them to remain blissfully unaware. A peculiar sense of loyalty remained within her, a delicate hope that someday, those who had forsaken her would recall her with warmth. In that moment, she might finally feel deserving of the surname they had bestowed upon her.
This time, though, the name was freely offered. With no one around to impose consequences, this moment was solely for her own sake.
"Violet Jenkins," she whispered, a new identity blooming in the ashes of the old.
⋯
In the bedroom's gentle glow, Violet dabbed at the corner of her eye with her blazer sleeve. Her voice trembled, betraying a deeper emotion than her dry eyes revealed.
"I've never really told anyone the whole story. And honestly...I didn't think I ever would."
Ivy's fingers tightened around hers, a silent reassurance. "Thank you for trusting me with it."
Violet nodded, the tremors that wracked her frame slowly subsiding, replaced by a fragile steadiness.
Violet let out a soft sigh, her breath warm against Ivy's shirt as she rested her head gently against her chest. Ivy's arm was draped around her shoulders, protective and still, the weight of the moment settling between them like a blanket neither of them wanted to remove. The quiet of the room was thick with shared vulnerability.
"I don't know why," Violet said quietly, voice barely above a whisper, "but I don't feel scared. Or sad. Or even angry right now." She shifted slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of Ivy's sleeve, a small, grounding touch. "Every other time I've thought about… all of that, it was like drowning. But now... I just feel calm. Like... I can finally breathe."
A tender smile graced Violet's lips as she angled her head, her gaze drifting upwards to meet Ivy's—but the smile faltered and vanished.
Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden stillness gripping her lungs.
Violet sat up, eyes widening as she met Ivy's gaze. For the first time, she noticed the eerie yet mesmerizing glow of Ivy's emerald eyes. Their depths pulsing with a gentle, inner light—a life force, undeniably present, and something else: raw, untamed power.
"Ivy…" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper as she rose to her knees. "Your eyes…"
Confusion flickered across Ivy's face, followed by a sudden, sharp understanding that crashed over her like a wave. She gasped, recoiling instinctively, her hand flying up as a barrier between them.
"Oh—crap, wait, no—Violet, I didn't mean to!" Ivy blurted, her hands flapping in a flurry of awkward gestures. "I didn't mean to use it on you, I swear! I wasn't trying to leech anything from you, I didn't even notice it was happening—"
Her frantic apologies were cut short by the unexpected sensation of arms encircling her.
Violet had leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around Ivy's shoulders. Her smile trembled with emotion, but there were no tears—just the overwhelming relief of someone who'd carried too much pain for too long.
"Thank you," Violet whispered. "I've never felt this kind of peace before. Not since I died. Not even close. But now… now it's like the fear's finally quiet for once." She exhaled shakily, her head pressing into Ivy's neck. "I didn't think it was possible."
Ivy sat frozen, stunned by the warmth of the hug and the softness in Violet's voice. Her hands hovered for a moment before settling on Violet's back—tentative, hesitant. But as Violet kept holding her, thanking her, needing her… Ivy's grip tightened. She embraced Violet fully, one hand clutching the back of her blazer as her chest ached in ways she didn't have words for.
Guilt twisted in her stomach like barbed wire. Her throat clenched. She'd taken Violet's grief—unintentionally—but it had still strengthened her. And that made her feel sick.
Tears erupted, a sudden and unstoppable flood. Ivy sniffled, her body rigid as the first drops overflowed, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.
Violet registered the shift instantly. She eased back, just enough to bring Ivy's face into focus.
"Ivy?" she asked gently. Then, seeing the tears, her eyes softened. "Oh... why are you crying?"
She reached out and wiped Ivy's face with the sleeve of her blazer, her touch light and comforting.
Ivy angled her face, a sheen of unshed tears catching the light. Her jaw was tight, a silent battle waged within. "Because I feel… gross," she admitted, the words barely a whisper. "Like I profited from your pain. I stole those raw emotions, and used it to build myself up. And now, I'm here, feeling… better? While you were forced to relive that all over again."
Her gaze dropped, shadowed by guilt. "And I chose to end things, Violet. You were robbed of that choice. Snatched away with a full future ahead. My death… it was just me surrendering."
Violet's heart ached, a sharp pang of empathy for the girl before her.
Gently, she framed Ivy's face in her hands, drawing their foreheads close until their eyes met, vulnerability mirrored in their depths.
"That doesn't make you selfish, Ivy," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. "It makes you… broken, like me. We both lost our lives in different ways, but that doesn't create a hierarchy of pain. You were suffering too, deeply. And you are still here, now. That has to mean something."
A small, gentle smile graced Violet's lips as she brushed her thumb softly beneath Ivy's eye.
"We are both still here, Ivy. That gives us a chance to truly live."
Ivy drank in Violet's words, sensing the tremors that had once rattled her body slowly dissipate, replaced by a gentle calm. She sniffled, her eyes softening as they met Violet's earnest gaze. "You're right," Ivy whispered, her voice still laden with emotion.
"Oh...and there's something else. The number...15..." Ivy hesitated, her gaze drifting as she searched for the right words. "It's considered an angel number. It represents new beginnings, opportunities...a chance to grow." Her voice steadied, gaining conviction. "It can also mean enlightenment...overcoming obstacles to find a new path."
Violet blinked, surprise etching itself onto her features. "Huh...I really thought... I thought it was bad luck, some kind of omen." A wave of relief crashed over her, so intense it left her momentarily breathless. Wordlessly, she pulled Ivy into a tight hug, holding on as if she might disappear. "Thank you, Ivy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion and muffled by Ivy's shoulder. "Thank you." The oppressive weight that had clung to them both seemed to ease, replaced by a fragile, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, they could truly begin again.