"That's warm…", I mumble, tossing in bed.
"..." I pause in confusion.
"Warm?...warm?" I repeat, confused.
Gasp, I jolt awake.
My heart pounds loud enough to drown any other sound. I grip my chest, in shock to comprehend reality. I touch my neck, feeling a trace of coldness. I slap myself to make sure this is not a dream.
"That hurts," I whisper softly, my cheek pulsating with pain.
My eyes dart to the window, the sun beaming in all its brilliance. I stare at the palms of my hands, trembling, unable to believe I am still alive. Tears stream down my cheeks uncontrollably, tangled with emotions.
I wipe my tears and rise out of bed. The feeling of cold tiles under my bare feet feels strangely comforting. I look at my feet– no blood on them, no feeling of pins and needles. Falling to my knees I hug myself with joy at the second chance I am given.
Maybe God saw my misfortune.
Hearing the birds outside my room, I turn my head towards them, coming to terms that I need to free myself of this place.
I walk over to my desk with a newspaper to figure out the date I've regressed to. I'm nineteen again, a few months from my twentieth birthday.
"This means I have about a year and a half until I die," I mutter, calculating the timing of the events that led me to my death.
My thoughts race, I bite my fingernails. I can feel the panic starting to take hold over me. Then something catches my attention from the corner of my eye– a reflection. A mirror, reflecting my apparent situation. I approach it to get a better look at myself.
I stare with sentimentality, at my worn-out clothes, at my petite and frail frame from being malnourished. My wavy and unkempt hair, dark as the night sky. My mind is filled with images of my mother. She used to color my hair to make me look like one of my so-called siblings.
It's paradoxical— how she'd color my hair, yet whisper honeyed words, saying my natural color, scarlet, was beautiful. She said it is the color of the sky before the sun sets over the ocean horizon. I've seen it in books, but I am sure it's even more beautiful in person.
My obsidian eyes, a trait that I inherited from her, a gift. A piece of her with me. My skin is porcelain-white, almost translucent like, but rough, reflecting the light.
A ghost.
I recognize my mother in myself. She died in vain, always hoping someone would save her. Hoping for a white-knight to come rescue her, but no one came.
My brother barges into my room as I turn away from the mirror.
He, like his father, has ebony hair and blue eyes. Despite the fact that we share a mother, he has never treated me as his sister. He has always seen me as a foe. Someone he can berate and bully without consequence. He is not that much older than me. We are only a year apart. He is around average in height among peers his age. I can't call him brilliant either. Average in everything, except cruelty, one exceptional trait he inherited from father.
"You," he says with a cold demeanor.
"Don't you ever get tired of this?" he exaggerates.
What is he even talking about?
"You pushed Lisette on the ground. You think I wouldn't find out? Huh?" he proclaims angrily.
He walks toward me, fuming. He clenches his fist, swings– a critical blow to my stomach. I collapse, coughing and wincing, tears stinging my eyes.
I look up to see the anger in his eyes. He turns and walks away without another word.
That'll bruise as always.
I hug my knees and roll in pain, struggling to catch my breath.
Moments later, after I regain some strength, I manage to crawl to the side of my bed. I use it to try pulling myself to my feet.
"Damn brat," I mutter, gritting my teeth as I force myself to stand.
He didn't have to punch me that hard— he used body enhancement magic, I sooth my stomach.
I stumble to the balcony to get some fresh air.