Chapter Text
There was once a boy who couldn’t possibly read.
His name was Wylan Van Eck, and he ran away from his home, his father, his childhood. At birth, he was promised a fortune. At sixteen, he was practically exiled, cast out from his home.
He died at twenty.
The news said he’d been robbing a bank, exploding everyone inside, miscalculating and killing himself as well. The news was wrong. He had been killed by the police. The news had said he’d been told to leave because of violent behaviours, and his mother had the bruises to prove it. The news was wrong. His father hurt them both.
Not long afterwards, he found himself standing in a field of dandelions. There was a bullet hole in his brown sweatshirt, but he was alive. The world was strange, though- the sky was a bit too bright for the time that he’d been withdrawing a few hundred. The flowers were brighter than any he’d ever seen, and he didn’t recall this field. Why wasn’t he in a hospital? He had just been shot at.
Taking a closer look, the wound should have been fatal. Why was he still standing? Had his father ordered him to be taken away?
At that very moment, a large bird soared in front of him, and it looked like flame if flames could manifest into a bird. A tail, much like a comet’s, streaked behind it. Shades of vibrant reds and yellows speckled the avian, so close and large Wylan could see its feathers. The bird circled above like a vulture awaiting an animal to die and rot.
Then it hit Wylan. He was dead. Birds like this didn’t exist, unless you looked at weathered history books and mythology books which were most likely fake. So was this the afterlife? An eternity being circled by a vulture on fire? That was going to be boring. Wylan sat.
The bird descended gracefully through the air, gliding but not very far. It landed right in front of him, and Wylan turned to look at the bird.
Hello, Wylan.
A voice invaded his head like the clouds invaded the sky, a soft yet masculine voice. The voice sounded sad yet gentle, and felt like if he pulled, like he’d pull a string, he’d pull the bird. The bird was the cause of the voice. Was Wylan on drugs?
“Um, hi?”
You’re dead, Wylan.
“I noticed. Am I going to stay here forever? Or just until the god of flowery hell decides to forcefully adopt me?”
Wylan, you’re not going to stay. You are going back. Straight back.
“Gosh, why? Music has been created and unplayable? Has evidence surfaced?”
Wylan, you aren’t meant to die. You are meant to live, to relive, to be reborn. How old do you wish to be reborn at currently?
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, back it up. Reborn? Relive?”
The bird mentally sighed, obviously not prepared for this when he signed up for this job. What was he doing, anyway? Welcoming a soul to the afterlife? Sending him back to be bruised and beaten by his father until he learnt to read?
You’re a phoenix, foolish child.
oh. He was meant to be back? He really didn’t want to go back.
“You asked my age? Could I go back with the same age as when I died?”
Yes, where would you prefer to be reborn?
Wylan thought for a bit. He’d died in the Netherlands, but he’d always wanted to explore the world. He’d wanted to go to Australia, to see the savage kangaroos and the dangerous animals. He’d wanted to go to France and study the music there. But he supposed he’d never be able to leave his home country since he couldn’t get onto a plane without being able to read.
And being offered a chance to go somewhere else? Yes, please. He didn’t think before responding, though.
“Canada. Toronto, please.”
Enjoy your life until you die, which hopefully won’t be so soon.
The bird really knew how to send people off, thought Wylan before he felt himself falling. Then he felt cold.