The steady sound of a heart monitor echoes throughout the hospital ward, an incessant reminder that I’m very near the end of my life. The orange light of the sunset seeps through the blinds staining the walls orange. Cheerful, upbeat music plays from the small device held in my grand daughter's hands. She has her chair scooched as close to the bed as she can manage so that I can look over her shoulder, the bed angled up for comfort, as she plays.
“What a wretched child.” I mutter under my breath. On the screen now is a beautiful but evil looking woman, with vivid pink hair that borders on red and scornful blue eyes the color of the ocean. A scornful smirk is plastered on a face that seems to have been designed for the sole purpose of looking down on others. She’s clearly a giant bitch. That would be Marguerite, the villainess.
In front of her is a different woman, hands clutched fearfully in front of her, she seemingly looks up at the player, light pink hair framing tear filled sky blue eyes. She’s the heroine of this story, the twin sister of the villainess who was separated when they were infants only to be miraculously reunited later in life, Marianne. Unlike the villainess, she has a kind, gentle looking face. The kind that’s hard to imagine ever wearing a scowl or saying something harsh. She’s pretty in a less glamorous sort of way than the first woman, although that effect is somewhat marred by the wine seeping through her hair, trickling down her face and staining her clothes.
“I know right?” agrees Samantha, skipping quickly through the dialogue, she’s clearly played this part before. While I’m kind of curious about the exact contents of their conversation, I can guess the gist of it. Lots of condescension and ridicule from the villainess, interspersed with apologies and attempts at reason from the heroine. One of the romantic interests will probably swoop in at some point and help sort it out. Or maybe they'll kill her, or imprison her, or sell her off to another country as a peace offering. Those are all ways that the villainess’ story can end. If she hadn't done plenty to earn them I'd call her pitiful. That's the way things usually go for villains though. If the bad guy didn't get what’s coming to them, it wouldn't be all that satisfying would it? And this broad is as bad as they come.
Sammy’s gotten me hooked on this stuff. She’s been visiting me several times a week these past few months, and she always brings me some of her light novels when she comes to visit me, mostly about romance, although she'll bring the occasional action adventure title. The past few weeks though, she’ll play this game while I watch, offering commentary and explanations where necessary, or more accurately, as she feels like it. I’m often confused as to what’s going on in the story, but it seems fun enough. More importantly though, I genuinely enjoy watching her immerse herself in something she enjoys that much.
“I'd smack her upside the head real good if I ever got the chance. That's no way to treat a sister, especially one you thought was dead. Selfish brat doesn't know what she's missing." I should know, having lost my sister when I was young. If she suddenly popped up alive and well you can bet I wouldn't be treating her like that. I'd trade every worldly possession I have for one more day with her.
Ugh, this game's getting to me again. I truly despise the villainess, and most of the romantic interests aren't all that great either. They're not as bad as the villainess, sure, but a good chunk of them are still pretty awful. They seem romantic enough within the confines of the story, but when you stop to think about their behavior, they mostly come across as creepy, manipulative, stalkerish, or even downright abusive.
The heroine however is a breath of fresh air. I think everyone either has a little sister like her, or knows someone who does. Perpetually upbeat, nice to everyone, and always full of energy. The kind of person who can make a whole room warmer with their presence alone. My sister was like that, so it feels sort of nostalgic watching her onscreen. Sammy calls her a ‘precious little cinnamon bun’, and I can’t help but agree.
If only there weren't so many 'bad ends', as Sammy calls them. The game seems to be full of them. There’s very few happy endings apparently, and one misstep can lead the heroine down the road to tragedy. Only the villainess seems to have it worse in that regard. It’s pretty rare she makes it to the end of the game alive and well. You’d think a game that made it so hard to win wouldn’t have many fans.
Counter to what I thought though, Sammy seems to enjoy that aspect. She says having to struggle so hard to get a happy ending makes the game that much more rewarding. She's on her twelfth playthrough, and she told me she's barely seen a tenth of the game's content. It's a rather large game according to her. She said there's even a few 'routes' where you can reconcile with the villainess, although it's apparently one of the hardest ones in the game.
“Yeah, I guess, but every story needs a bad guy. If there’s no struggle, can you really call it a story?” Samantha counters. “Plus it’s SUPER satisfying watching her get her comeuppance. Speaking of which.” Onscreen a blond haired blue eyed man has grabbed the villainess’ arm and yanked it behind her back.
It’s the crown prince, type two subtype B. Boring. I’m assuming he’s going on and on about her wickedness and chastising her for being so cruel and whatnot. I agree with him, but damn if he isn’t generic. He’s the scheming type of crown prince who acts dashing in public but has a secret dark side, because of course he is. He originally only wants the heroine for political reasons, but of course he has a change of heart and starts pursuing her for real. So predictable. If you’re gonna be a schemer, stay a schemer. At least that way you’ll stick out, otherwise you just blend in with the crowd. For the record, Samantha doesn’t like him either, and she says that he isn’t a very popular character overall. I can see why.
“She’s gonna get merced in a bit,” Samantha tells me, still furiously skipping through dialogue. She told me earlier she’s trying for a new route that splits off later in the game. “She gets confined to her room, but sneaks out to vent her rage on Mary in the middle of the night. She’s caught in the middle of trying to choke her to death and the crown prince runs her through.
“But that’s gonna have to be all for tonight,” She says, shutting down the console. “I’m the absolute picture of health, so I’m allowed to pull all nighters, but you need your beauty rest.” She spends a minute or so packing her things before walking up to me and pulling me into a gentle hug, as if she’s afraid to break me. I’d be offended if it weren’t a real possibility. “I love you Granny. Stay healthy, ok? I’ll be back with Dad on Thursday.”
I return her hug as best I can, but it seems like my arms are heavier and heavier every day. “I’ll do my best dear. Make sure that son of mine is eating properly. Drag him to the table by the ear if you have to, that always worked for me.”
“Will do. I love you. Nighty night,” she says as she lightly waves to me, pulling the door closed behind her. With that, it’s just me and my room again. The sunset has faded from a brilliant orange to an almost crimson red, and I can’t help but feel that sunsets like this almost seem designed for contemplating one’s mortality. As if the world is urging you to compare the fading of the light to the fading of one’s own life.
I’m not going to make it out of this hospital. The doctors know it, my family knows it, and I know it. I’ve lived a full life. My story is one full of agony, heartbreak, and strife; but also great happiness. I’ve more than my fair share of regrets, and there are a million and one things I’d do differently if I got the chance to, but I’ve also found irreplaceable people I would never have met if it weren’t for all that I went through.
I’ve married three times, divorced twice, and been widowed once. I’ve got five wonderful children, almost a dozen grandchildren, and I’ve even got a few great grandchildren who are almost old enough to start their own families. My son Elijah, and granddaughter Samantha are the only ones who can visit regularly, but everyone else has stopped by at least once since I wound up here. I talk to at least one of them almost every day on the laptop, and my grandkids are always texting me on the phone, jabbering on about this and that.
Reading books, talking with family, and lying in bed. This is how I'm whiling away the last of my days. I couldn't be happier.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The last rays of the sun have finally retreated behind the horizon, giving way to the soft glow of dusk. My eyelids feel heavier by the second, and I sink further back into the bed. As the hazy black of unconsciousness closes in, I’m suddenly struck by the thought that I probably won’t wake up again. But this thought brings no fear. My affairs are settled, and I’ve long since said my goodbyes. The darkness swallows me up and I close my eyes for the last time. So ends the life of Edna Abidi.
At least, that’s what was supposed to happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m floating. It’s warm, and comfortable, and I don’t want to leave. It’s a nostalgic place, one I’ve been to in a time I’m no longer capable of remembering. I sometimes hear voices, close by but also far away calling to me. They’re unfamiliar, but oh so precious to me, for reasons I can’t identify. I’m barely conscious, passing time in a haze of slumber and tranquility. I don’t know how long I spend there, but before I know it, the walls of my home begin to shudder. I don’t want to go, not yet. But against my will, I’m slowly, inexorably pulled from my place of comfort.
The cold air bites at my bare skin, and I can’t help but cry. Giant hands, soft yet strong hold me aloft. Warm water washes me off before I’m gently dried off with a soft towel, wrapped in a pink blanket, and handed to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
My screams die in my throat as she wraps her arms around me, holding me to her chest. Eyes a more vivid blue than the deepest ocean gaze at me so full of love it threatens to pour over. Her delicate round facial features have a light sheen of sweat on them, but subtle laugh lines and prominent dimples serve to show the pure joy she practically radiates. Instead of detracting from her beauty, it serves to make her glow. Her auburn hair, sweaty, matted, and sticking to her skin, serves as the only real sign of the pain she’s just been through.
My head is still muddled, and it’s nearly impossible to form a coherent thought, but I still know who this woman is. Even though I’ve never seen her before in my life, it’s impossible to not know who she is. Only one person could possibly look this beautiful, this full of love. She’s my mother, and I’ve just been born. I’m a baby. I died, was reborn, and for some reason I still have the memories of my previous life, although they feel distant and fuzzy. I can recall a vague outline, but the details are often hard to recall, like a book you read in your youth. You can recall the basic plot, but the names, details, and specific plot points have faded with time.
But that doesn’t feel important right now. My past, my present, the existence of a soul and its ability to transcend lifetimes. None of that matters for some reason. Not as long as she keeps holding me in her arms. Just as I’m about to nod off, the door opens.
A man enters, carrying another bundle wrapped in pink, and instantly I recognize him as my father. He feels familiar, just as she does, but I can’t identify why. His face is hard, stern, as if it were chiseled from ice. His hair is neat and slicked back, a blue so light and pale it appears to be white at first glance. Eyes the color of the sky on a cold winter’s day complete the picture. The man is a glacier. Cold, hard, and unyielding.
But just as glaciers thaw when the seasons change, so too does his expression. It’s clear he’s trying to keep his face static, but he’s already failing a little as he walks into the room, a bit of warmth showing in his eyes as he gazes down at the baby in his arms. He looks up and catches sight of the two of us, and the last of the ice in his veins seems to thaw. He sits in a chair next to the bed, and I suddenly feel the slightest bit nostalgic. They start speaking to each other softly, but I don’t understand a word of it.
He’s sitting with the baby in his arms turned towards us. Light pink hair and baby blue eyes. That's significant for reasons I can't quite recall. But its not important right now. Maybe its some instinct that babies have, but just as I knew immediately that the man and woman were my parents, I'm immediately aware that this other child is my sister, my twin. She squirms slightly, reaching her small arms towards mother and I, and more words are exchanged.
Father sets her down next to me on mothers chest. We lock eyes for the briefest of moments, her delicate baby blues open in wonder. Then I'm delicately hauled through the air by my father, and just like that, my sister and I have traded places.
He whispers something to me. It's not the baby speak people usually use for infants, and in fact I rather suspect he's talking more to himself than me. But its still comforting.
Whereas mother is like the sun on a perfect summer day, bright and warm, he's like the shade beneath the trees, cool and comforting. They really compliment each other perfectly. Though I can't understand what he's saying, it's soothing nonetheless, his deep steady voice echoing through my whole body, held to his chest as I am. Before I even realize it, I'm drifting off to sleep.
I soon found that the brief somewhat hazy period of lucidity after my birth was to be my last for quite awhile. I was a baby in all aspects, unable to summon the clarity of mind to think beyond the normal capacity of an infant. If I was hungry or soiled or even just lonely, I cried no matter how hard I tried not to. The brief seconds it took for my screeching to summon one of my parents or a maid seemingly stretching on for hours, while the hours I spent contentedly occupied passed in mere moments. Babies truly do experience the world differently.
Most of my time was spent with my sister in one fashion or another, whether we were resting together in our crib, laying on the floor together, or taking turns being fed by our mother, or on occasion what seemed to be a wetnurse. But a cloud of anxiety hung over me, the reason for which I couldn’t identify, which only seems to get worse when I finally learn our names. My sister is named Marianne, while I’m named Marguerite. The first time I hear them, a thrill of fear runs through me, although I can’t tell why. It has to do with my past life, but those memories are still distant, so the feeling soon fades. The sheer love and affection their voices hold when they whisper my name overrides any lingering anxiety the name causes me, and pretty soon just hearing my name is enough to bring a smile to my face.
And so time passes, one day morphing seamlessly into another, me, my sister, and our parents. Our first carriage ride comes and goes, though we slept most of the ride, and we arrive at a smaller, though still rather large, property nestled in the woods. I remember little of what happens there. I remember heat and flames, smoke scouring my lungs, and the sounds of combat. When I next come to myself, I’m back home at the main house. But Marianne is gone.
My parents eyes are sunken and hollow, and it seems like they cry nearly as often as I do. The only time they seem to have any light in their eyes is when they hold me. They look fragile, as if they’re on the verge of breaking, but they seem to find comfort in trying to spoil me rotten. My toys and clothing become more expensive, and if I show so much as the slightest sign of discomfort, they act as if it’s the coming of the apocalypse.
I don’t know how long we were together, probably only a couple of months, but it likely takes me at least that long to stop crying for the partner who’s no longer there. She was there since nearly the moment of my birth, together with me almost every single second of every single day. A constant and comforting presence that I could rely on to calm me when I felt anxious. And now she is gone, and in her place, is nothing but a hollow aching void.
But time waits for no one. It marches on without regard for pain or loss. The days continue on relentlessly. I slowly start to pick up the language here, one word at a time, and each time I do, I can stay ‘awake’, I can stay myself a little longer. The memories of my past life begin to clear up, and I’m able to recall more and more as the days pass by.
I learn to walk, tottering uncertain steps taken as one of my parents holds me steady, and they celebrate my first words with great aplomb. Halting steps, and stuttered words quickly grow into a slow but steady walk, and an ever expanding vocabulary. I start speaking in full sentences much earlier than most children, and I can see the unrestrained joy and pride on my parents faces.
Before I know it, my third birthday is only a few months away. I’m sitting in my room, looking discontentedly at my face in the mirror. I’m pretty to be sure, all of my features hinting at great beauty in my future. If only I didn’t look so damn angry. A sharp upturned nose, and thin lips that default into a scowl. Bright pink hair that looks like a carnation set on fire, and brilliant blue eyes resembling the cold of the ocean deep.
“I look like a villainess.” It’s as I mumble this thought to myself that one of the last memories from my past life snaps into place, and I have a wonderful, horrifying, terrifying realization. I’ve always felt nostalgic about many things in a way that I couldn’t quite explain, as if I was remembering them from my last life, but that should be impossible. When I first met my parents, I’d felt like I’d seen them before. My sister's face, lighter and softer than my own seemed nostalgic, as if I’d seen it before in a fond memory I couldn’t quite recall. But I’d chalked these feelings up to the natural fondness an infant feels for its family.
But now I realize I actually had seen them before, in my past life. In my last days, spent stuck in a bed in a hospital, my granddaughter played a game. A game centered around a girl, lost in a fire, and miraculously reunited with her parents and villainess twin sister years later. Only one thing could properly sum up the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as I realized that I was indeed, a villainess from an otome game aimed at teenage girls.
“Shit.”