No Blood, No Flame

Phoenix sat alone in the theater. They were always alone in the theater. They couldn’t remember the last time there had been someone watching a movie with them. Maybe it had never happened.

They weren’t even sure how they got there. They must be dead. In the movies, ghosts haunted homes for centuries. Why not a movie theater? Before this, the theater had shown plays. Before that, it had been the estate of an arms dealer. Phoenix didn’t know if this affected them. It probably didn’t, but gave them something to ponder on long nights.

All Phoenix knew of themselves was that they had a long scar, from neck to leg, and couldn’t feel the left side of their body. They always sat in the center of the theater. They could move, but rarely did.

They heard footsteps. It was that questionable hour between morning and night. The building was always empty by then. Phoenix got out of their seat. A shiver went down their bloodless spine. What did they have to fear?

Surely whatever could happen already had. The steps came closer, echoing in the dark. Phoenix tried to speak, but it was ages since their voice had been heard.

Nothing was there. Nothing could hurt them. They were dead.



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