“I can’t die.” Even before I say it I know you’ll never believe me, but it’s true. “I can prove it.”
I turn the knife over in my hand and watch your eyes slant towards the door behind me. You know you can’t get past me, which is why you stay glued to your chair. I don’t like that I inspire such thoughts. That was never the intention. But you’ll see that in a moment.
You lick your lips with a nervous flick of your tongue. “That’s okay, I believe you.”
You don’t, but you will.
I crouch in front of you, knife swinging loosely from my fingers. “There’s no need to be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to see.”
“What are you going to do?”
“This.” I flip the knife in my grip so the blade points at my heart and then plunge the steel into my flesh.
My grunt of pain is drowned by your scream and you nearly tip the chair over as you try to scramble backwards, away from me. You grip the arms of the chair so tight your fingernails turn white.
I gingerly pull the bloody blade free. I can’t die, but it still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. The blade clatters to the floor and I wince as I take a breath.
The wound is already knitting.
Slowly the tension fades and releases your limbs. The grimace on your face softens as questions take root.
“What?” You slide off the chair onto your knees on the floor, eyes flicking from the small trace of blood on my clothes to the blade on the floor and back. Your hands search up under my shirt to expose my rapidly healing skin. “That’s not possible.”
Finally your eyes settle on mine. Your hand still rests on my chest.
“How— What are you?”
I cover your hand with my own. “It’s a long story.”
This microfiction story was based on a prompt from @Writer_JeniLee