Persephone
“Persephone,” he hisses. “Come to me.”
A shrill, deafening cry escapes from my lips. My lungs expand as I suck in more air and my throat is raw—chafed, flakes of dry skin being peeled away after a sun burn.
I bolt upright in my bed as my mother bursts through the door. Hysteria washes over me. I gasp and choke on a ball of air wedged in the middle of my esophagus. Fighting. I’m fighting for the oxygen to leave my lungs.
My mother sweeps me up into her arms and whispers comforting words into my ears. “Hush, darling. It’s all right.”
I let out long ragged breaths, finally able to breathe. Tears matriculate in my eyes. I bite them back as beads of sweat drizzle down my forehead and my arms and legs begin to convulse.
Mom squeezes me tighter, controlling my flailing limbs. “Calm down, sweetheart,” she consoles me. “It was only a dream.”
But this isn’t a dream. This is a voice, life-like and real. A voice that has been coming to me on my seventeenth birthday for as long as I can remember. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, every seventeen years he comes to me, taunting me. And it’s always the same thing, Persephone. Come to me. The reality of it haunts me. This is not a figment of my imagination.
“It feels so real,” I mumble, suddenly exhausted.
“Sometimes dreams feel more real than not,” my mother says, tucking me underneath the covers. “Go back to sleep, love.”
“Persephone,” he hisses again. “Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.”
The voice blurs and fades, like a faint cry riding on the tails of the wind. I yawn and stretch, rolling over. I fold my pillow under my head and wait for the voice to return. When I hear nothing but the sound of my own breathing I allow myself to drift back into a dreamless slumber.
****
“Happy Birthday!” my mother squeals. Her face inches away from mine.
I open one eye squinting, still half asleep. “Thanks,” I grumble and roll over.
“No way, young lady.” She rips my comforter off me. “Time to wake up.”
“Ugh. Isn’t it supposed to be my day?” I whine. “Can’t you let me sleep a little longer?”
She smirks, shaking her head. “Nope. You have school.”
Hurling my legs over the side of the bed, I rise slowly and my eyes adjust to the bright lighting in my room. My mother observes me for a second then tears well up in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mom.” It bothers me seeing her so emotional.
“I can’t help it,” she sniffles. “My baby is almost an adult.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, do you have to do this every seventeen years? My real seventeenth birthday was like forever ago.”
She pulls a tissue out of the pocket of her violet cardigan and blows her nose. “That’s the beauty of being immortal my dear. You never run out of seventeenth birthdays.”
Most of the time I thought of our immortality as being more of a curse than a blessing. I imagine most humans would cherish the opportunity to never grow old. In the beginning of my life, I have to say it was fascinating. But living forever does become tiresome, when a person has been around as long as I have.
“Get ready for school, honey,” she commands. “After you get home, I’ve got a fun day planned for us.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Can’t I just have a quiet, low-key birthday for once?”
She tucks a loose piece of her auburn hair behind her ear. “Now what kind of mother would I be if we did that?”
A mother who actually listens to what her daughter wants. “Fine,” I say, defeated. “I’ll be downstairs in a little bit.”
She kisses my forehead gently. “Good.” Then she walks out of my room.
At my dresser, I slide open the top drawer. The cherry stained wooden container is relatively new and the smell of fresh cedar hasn’t faded yet. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the musky scent and I adore it. Any scent reminding me of the outdoors is something that I’ll never get tired of. Being the Goddess of Springtime probably has something to do with that.