Ontogenesis

You ever get that feeling of being stuck? Like you're trapped inside your own skin, but no matter what happens to you, no matter how much it breaks you, the body just won't quit? Yeah, I know what that's like. You don't get to rest. You don't get to walk away. No matter what, your body heals, picks itself up again, but that's the surface, the shell. What really gets you is the inside. The soul. The mind. The things no one tells you about.

And that's the price you pay. Every time you die, every time you're ripped apart, something inside you changes. But it doesn't stop. It never does. Because when immortality becomes your reality, the marks—those scars—pile up, layer after layer. The pain, the loss, the betrayals—they stay with you. They follow you, even when your body is whole again, even when you think you've survived.

And the worst part? You can't forget. You can't leave it behind. It's like a constant weight on your chest, a slow pressure that you can't escape. And sooner or later, it breaks you. Not your body—your soul. It gives out. It can't keep up with the endless cycle. And when that happens, everything changes. You wake up in a new body, with a new face, and you try to start over.

But you never really do. Not completely.

You're still you, but something's missing. Something's always left behind, stuck in the past, while you're left to piece together a new life. And no matter how many times you do it, no matter how many times you try, the past keeps finding you. You can't outrun it. It's like a shadow. You might not see it, but you know it's there, lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to catch up.

And every time you wake up, it feels like the same story. The same weight. The same scars—buried deep, so deep you can't even remember where they came from. But you feel them. You carry them. Forever.

I don't know how many more times I can do this. How many more lives I'll live, pretending that this time will be different. But deep down, I know it won't be. This cycle is endless. There's no stopping it.

I don't know if I'm immortal. I think, maybe, I'm just broken. And no matter how many times I start over, I'll never find what I'm looking for. The peace, the release. It's always just out of reach.

Because immortality? It isn't about living forever.

It's about running. Running from everything you can't escape. And I don't know how much longer I can keep running.

I woke up drowning.

Again.

The first rush of water into my lungs sent my body into a frenzy, limbs thrashing on instinct even as my brain caught up, sluggish and aching. Panic would be useless, but try telling that to my survival reflex. My chest burned, my vision blurred, and for a moment, just a moment, I almost let it take me.

Let go. Sink. Maybe stay gone this time.

But no. My body refused. It always did.

I kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp so sharp it cut. The night air hit like a slap—cold, wet, and thick with the scent of moss and decay. My throat convulsed, choking out water that tasted like metal and something wrong. My arms ached. My head pounded. And through it all, the same exhausted thought pulsed at the back of my skull:

Not again.

I forced myself to tread water, dragging in shaky, burning breaths. The fog rolled over the lake like it had been expecting me. The sky above was starless, unfamiliar. A bad sign. I glanced down at my hands—pale, shaking, unfamiliar. An even worse sign.

Where am I?

When am I?

Who the hell am I this time?

Because that was the thing about dying over and over again—at some point, you stop keeping track.

I wake with the sharp sting of a headache, the kind that's almost too familiar. It claws at my skull like fingers digging in, relentless, unforgiving. The room's dark, or maybe it's just my eyes. Either way, I know I'm not where I'm supposed to be. But where am I?

I blink, trying to clear the fog, but it doesn't work. Nothing about this feels right. The bed is too small. The sheets are scratchy and thin, nothing like I remember. Everything smells stale—like dust, like something forgotten. I can feel the weight of the silence pressing in on me, heavy and suffocating. My heart pounds in my chest, but the ache isn't physical. It's something deeper. Something familiar, something I've learned to live with.

The walls are cracked, the wallpaper peeling, the air thick with age. I sit up slowly, but the motion feels strange—awkward, as if I don't really know how to move anymore. The room isn't much—just a bed, a small dresser, a window that's so covered in grime, it's hard to tell if there's even daylight outside. But it's not the room that has me on edge. It's the feeling.

I've been here before.

Not here exactly, but in a place like this. A place that feels like it's forgotten everyone who's ever walked through it.

And then, just like that, the memories flood in.

A mother who couldn't afford food. A father who vanished, leaving nothing but a trail of empty bottles and broken promises. A house that wasn't really a home. And a baby brother—his crying, endless, painful. That sound, it's in my ears now, like it's never stopped.

An orphanage.

The word rattles around in my head, disjointed, as if it doesn't belong. But I know it does. This place, this cold, empty room—it's where they put kids who have nothing. Or, maybe, kids who had too much—too many broken pieces to fix, too many empty spaces inside them.

I try to make sense of the flood of memories, but they don't make sense. They're not mine, not really. It's like they've come from someone else, someone who was here before me and never got a chance to live like me.

I push myself out of bed, forcing my legs to carry me across the room. The cold floor is a shock against my bare feet, but it's nothing compared to the weight on my chest. I want to run, but I can't.

I stand in front of the cracked mirror, staring at the face that looks back at me. It's not my face. Not really, but whenever it is, it is truly. It's a stranger's. Someone too young, too tired, like they've been carrying the weight of the world and had nothing to show for it. The eyes, they're the same. Hollow. Empty. Searching for something they'll never find.

I turn away from the mirror, dragging my gaze across the room. My eyes land on the desk in the corner, barely enough space for anything. Papers, a half-empty cup, dust collecting in the corners. It's the kind of room you'd expect from a place that's been forgotten. A place for people like me.

My new name hits me before I even reach the desk. There is a slight metallic clink as I pull the bracelet from the mess of papers. I hold it, my fingers brushing against the cold, smooth surface. I read the name, though I don't want to.

Victor Aguilar.

That's who I am now. A new name, a new body. Another shell to wear, another identity to slip into like it belongs. 

I let the bracelet dangle from my fingers, feeling its weight settle in the pit of my stomach. There's nothing I can do about it. There is nothing I can change. This is who I am now. Who I have to be, at least for a little while.

The body feels wrong in ways I can't explain. It's just a shell, but it doesn't fit. The limbs are too long, the skin too soft, the face too young. There's a faint smell of someone else on it—a smell I don't recognize, but it's there. And the voice… I can't even picture how it sounds anymore.

Victor Aguliar, I wonder how long this will last.