My vision blurred, the edges of my sight darkening into a suffocating tunnel until I could see nothing but swirling grey. I struggled to breathe, each ragged gasp a desperate plea for air, for life. As I did, I felt a bone-chilling cold seep into my very being, numbing the pain, extinguishing the fire, and then…nothing. Just an echoing emptiness.
When I awoke, I was here, inhabiting the body of a sixteen-year-old girl with long, thick half curled hair and wide, innocent eyes, in a world that felt both familiar and alien, a disorienting mix of recognition and otherness, with fragmented memories flooding my mind like shards of broken glass, each piece sharp and incomplete.
My first thoughts were; I get to live again! This is a miracle! I want to try harder, make something of this new chance, be better, do better, live a life worthy of this gift, etc… The hope surged through me like a tidal wave.
Heh, fail. Utterly, miserably. No matter what I did back then, no matter how I struggled or resisted, I was bound by the plot, trapped within its cruel confines, forced to play my pre-determined role, like a puppet on a string, my movements dictated by an unseen author, a cosmic puppeteer pulling the strings of my fate. The illusion of choice was just that—an illusion.
Ah ha, ha, haha. I laughed, I struggled, I lamented and then I hated!
Why couldn’t I become nothing when I died?
Why must I live such a life all to make wedding dresses for a dog couple. The little ‘mutt’ I had saved on a mere whim due to pity, I wanted to stab to death but I was restricted.
Going through all of that, how could I be normal?
From sixteen to thirty three, I had to live with such restrictions until I could be free. Heh, they want to be happy?
While I had to slink in a corner like a wounded animal?
Heh.
Then I will let them all know, let the world know!
Fuck your happy ever after, what of the characters that were driving like me?
I am Vanity!
If I am not happy, then no one is happy!
I will never allow that dog couple to have an easy life?
Heh, never!
That very person, returned to thinking like her character, before was simply a mere memory.
She had tried to think like herself when she first arrived and dying to be brought back to life, remembering—
In a meticulously crafted, six-room cabin, seemingly out of place in its surroundings, one found an unexpected level of comfort and luxury. The cabin boasted a bathroom with modern fixtures, a sleekly designed space with a walk-in shower and heated towel rack, a sleeping room that was the biggest room and most modern compared to the rest, complete with a library nook integrated into the bedroom with a sunken middle where a fifteen-foot wide custom-made bed, piled high with silk cushions, and an eight-foot long chaise lounge, upholstered in buttery-soft leather, were nestled. A kitchen filled with all modern stainless steel appliances, gleaming under recessed lighting, and granite countertops, cool to the touch. A dining room with a long mahogany table, polished to a mirror sheen, and four intricately carved seats, though they were unnecessary because she never invited people to this secluded place. The living room was complete with oversized, plush chairs – two two-seater sofas and two three-seater sofas – upholstered in a soft, velvety fabric in shades of cream and beige to finish was a hand-woven woollen rug, approximately five feet wide and four feet long, adding a touch of warmth and texture to the polished hardwood floors. The sunroom was filled with some rare orchids, flown in from Thailand, and hibiscus flowers, cultivated in her own small greenhouse, their vibrant colours a stark contrast to the muted tones of the dense foliage outside.
Presently, a woman sat looking through the floor-to-ceiling window of her sunroom, her gaze fixed on the small, dense forest in the background and the shimmering expanse of the nearby lake, its surface reflecting the dappled sunlight. The air hung heavy with the scent of salt, carried on the gentle breeze from the ocean, and the intoxicating fragrance of blooming jasmine, which climbed the trellis outside the window.
Not many would believe such a luxurious and well-appointed place would exist in such a remote area, but it did, nestled right on a small, privately-owned island, purchased decades ago and shrouded in secrecy, off the rugged, less-touristed coast of Barbados in the Caribbean.
She was a little over sixty years old, but her skin was almost void of wrinkles, a testament to a life lived away from harsh elements, sheltered from the scorching sun and biting winds, and perhaps aided by the advantages of wealth and access to the best skincare. Her dark skin, smooth and supple, and thick natural hair, now almost white, fell almost to her lower back in thick ropes of meticulously maintained Rasta locs, each strand perfectly coiled. A wooden pendant, shaped like an ankh, a symbol of life, hung delicately around her neck, a reminder of her own unexpected second chance.
Her eyes were still strikingly beautiful, framed by thick, sooty silver lashes that partially hid a cold, assessing gaze, honed by years of observation and strategic planning. They held a depth of experience and secrets, hinting at a life lived to the fullest, both the triumphs and the tragedies.
She wore a loose-fitting linen shirt and matching pants in a shade of pale grey, chosen for their comfort and breathability, with soft cotton socks on her feet. The simple clothing did little to disguise her slim, firm muscles and shapely form of all woman, honed by years of dedicated training. When she tilted her face towards the soft morning light, one could see the enduring beauty that time had not ravaged – a delicate, yet strong jawline, high cheekbones, and an air of quiet dignity that both commanded respect and awe.
This woman had the surname Michael, though her family had become fallen in social standing after a series of unfortunate business dealings, she had enough money, carefully invested and managed, to live a life of luxury, far beyond what those outside could have ever imagined, even if she died tomorrow but, heh, that wasn’t part of the plan and even if she did, it will only be donated and never be fed to those two dogs!
Her life had been tragic love-wise.
The pain and sorrow in her life had been sad, but it is OK. She had channelled all of that into her wildly popular web novels. Dog Blood novels, overflowing with so many plot holes and outrageous twists that she had become infamous for angering her readers, inciting their fury and frustration to the point her black fans spanned over the hundreds of thousands to multi-millions worldwide, a testament to the addictive nature of her storytelling.
The emptiness within her never seemed to go away, a hollow ache that resonated deep within her soul. And by all that’s holy, she had tried to fill it, seeking solace in various pursuits, but only this seemed to work, this ability to manipulate emotions and create worlds where suffering reigned supreme. How can someone who did not believe in happily ever after, who viewed love as a fleeting illusion, write a romance novel with a ‘HE’ (Happily Ever After)?
Nah, she could not. It was a betrayal of her own experiences, a lie she refused to perpetuate. Even if she was part of a book herself, she had no other way.
What she had believed to be such was false; therefore, she will never write such nonsense. Her leads must make her readers want to cough blood in anger, want to furiously condemn her for being a stepmother author, delighting in the misery of her characters.
She didn’t mind. She suffered, so those who also believe in happily ever after must also suffer, must be forced to confront the harsh realities of life.
Now she was thinking about her next novel, a particularly twisted tale of betrayal and revenge, before smirking and typing away on her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she unleashed her creative fury upon the unsuspecting world.