I watch as the woman born of ashes separates from me. She glows, bright, fire surrounds her, heat stroking every motion of her body. She is on fire – this woman of beauty. Her brilliance is unmatched – it dazzles me as I look closer and closer. No hint of self-hatred or remorse appears upon her brow, but rather a singular happiness at being born again. She lives.
I look at my hands – grey, dead. Strangled from loss, pain, suffering – yes, the blood supply had long ago dried up. The heart in my chest beats faintly. I watch as I tap my fingers together and they crumble under so small an impact – I watch as the grey cracks spread up my arms and reach my shoulders, as they appear all over my body. They encompass my torso. The only thing left is the brilliant orange-red heart, barely beating. Barely alive. Yes, it´s there. I can see the cracks obscuring my vision as the bright one comes ever closer, her fiery beauty blinding me, searing my optical nerve. I can feel her heat coming closer, as though her hand is reaching towards me, to take from me something that she desperately needs.
No, I try to cry out. But my mouth is dust, dry and cracked. Don’t take my heart. Don´t take my memories.
But she doesn’t hear my pleas – my anxious thoughts do not reach her. I hear the heart beat, slowly, ever so slowly. I feel the scorching presence of her hand reaching into the pile of ashes – yes, the pile of ashes that I have become – and pulling my heart from the grey dust. I am no longer conscious of what is happening except that the heat does not leave me. It surrounds me and passes through me, becomes me.
After an infinite second, I open my eyes. I look at myself, flames surrounding me. I am the Phoenix.