[ WP ] When a human dies , another parallax world is created where this human continues to live as they did n't die , in this world , they can remember their death from the previous world but no one would believe them .

My name is Joe, and I ’ ve died 39 times so far. Given that I ’ m only 26 years old this is probably more than average, but the thing is… I wouldn ’ t know. I died seven times just from the side effects of having told someone of these memories – everything from overdoses to adverse sedative reactions, oh and let ’ s not forget that one guy at the asylum and his breakdown. After I woke up, remembering my brutal dismembering as every other time… I was the only one left alive. 
 
 So naturally I have now gotten “ better ”. I no longer remember dying horribly when I cross a road and a car careens out of control just a second too late to actually hit me. I don ’ t remember drinking too much and dying of alcohol poisoning when I wake up hungover. I don ’ t remember getting stabbed to death in a botched mugging when I take an uneventful walk through a dark alley. 
 
 I got a lot better. I no longer need to be medicated, I no longer talk to my shrinks. I ’ m pretty sure at least one or two of them guessed I was just pretending to be over it, but in this day and age they don ’ t really care. I ’ m just a number on a long list of people who need help, and if they can send me back out in society they don ’ t care if I actually have my shit together or can just pretend enough that I won ’ t actually go nuts and kill everyone or something. 
 
 So yeah, here I am, in a boring call center job, wishing I was dead like most of the drones around me. Life doesn ’ t hold much for me, not with the horrors I have to remember every day. There ’ s no stress when your mind is already set to ‘ dead ’, no amount of pressure can compete with the feeling of your inner organs being torn apart slowly… It ’ s like my scale for everything has a new 10, and the worst this reality can throw at me now is a 3 at best in comparison. 
 
 And I know, you are still wondering how I managed to die 39 times in 26 years of life. I wondered the same, wondered if everyone else walked around getting into this kind of shit as often as me… but no. From everything I can tell, I just have the worst fucking luck. If normal people go to the second floor of an old house, they hear the floor creaking and walk carefully. If I go to the second floor of an old house, I feel the floor giving way under me, feel the exposed splinters and nails tearing up my body as I fall through grasping for purchase, I feel the slam of my body against the hard surfaces, I feel the tingling as my hand grabs that cable it shouldn ’ t have as I finally lose my grip, and that sudden explosion of pain and then nothing as my feet touch the floor while my hand still holds the frayed cable… And then I ’ m up there again, hearing the floor creaking, but standing half an inch to the side of where I stepped the last time. Just like that. Worst luck ever. 
 
 For a while I spent a lot of time thinking about how I could use this. Like could I be a super hero or something? Invulnerable man, always getting shot but never dying? In the end I just don ’ t know. I ’ ve never once died on purpose. There ’ s always that niggling doubt in the back of my head, that worry that this only works when it ’ s an accident. I don ’ t believe, in my heart of hearts, that I ’ m immortal. I just know it somehow, just feel like it ’ s… like it ’ s just the way I am. Just an oddity. Like Fred two desks down that has an extra toe he always shows off the staff parties. Just a mutation. 
 
 But enough contemplation, back to work! Another day another dollar, got ta pay for the hopefully memory loss inducing alcohol overdose this weekend somehow! I pick up the phone just as the thunderclap sounds outside, and whimper a quiet ‘ Fuck ’ as the lightning strike courses through our switchboard, up all our phone lines, through my hand, my arm, my chest, I can feel my heart crashing before it all goes black… 
 
 And the rasping of a fire alarm brings me back. There ’ s smoke, but no fire… I know the smell of burning flesh. I ’ m not the only one shell shocked, some walk to check on the fallen, some just stand there, some, like me, walk over to the windows to watch the storm, watch the view, watch anything but the chaos behind us. 
 “ Are you okay, ” says some girl I haven ’ t learned the name of yet. She gestures at my arm, and I blush, quickly rolling my sleeve down to cover the tell-tale Lichtenberg scars. “ Did you get hit? ” 
 
 “ No no, ” I quickly lie. “ Just a skin condition. It ’ s nothing, really. ” 
 
 Just a skin condition, drawing scars all over my body. Scars from accidents that never happened. Just a skin condition that nobody would ever believe. 
 ***** 
 I archive my writing on r/ringaroundtheroses in case you're looking for more to read! 

