Sabine was twenty when she got married. There were rumors that she had actually been forced into marrying Pierre, who was eighteen years her senior.
He was wealthy and Sabine’s mother wanted to get rid of her anyway.
Sabine was a vision in her beautiful white gown, which sparkled against the lavish walls of the big fancy hotel ballroom. Nobody noticed the desperation and pain in her eyes. Everyone was too busy marveling at Sabine’s wonderful luck and Pierre’s expensive taste.
No one knew when the fire started. The alarm never went off. By the time the firefighters got to the scene, the place had already burned down.
Fifteen years have passed since. They say if you drive down that road in the wee hours of the morning, you can still hear the blood-curdling screams of Pierre and his family as Sabine burns them down over and over.
It was day five. She didn’t want to tell her man what was going on with her.
Darkness fell, and her face changed. She felt the presence of something within her, consuming her, she felt her body start to contort. Her eyes fell on the mirror on the wall. In the low lights of her Hollywood vanity she saw her scleras blacken. Something else stared back as she looked at herself in the mirror.
It was less than a week to the wedding – all she could think of was how to get rid of the other man, this demon that had been taking over her body every night. Every night, at the same time.
Sometimes I want to actually talk to my mother, and tell her she was wrong. I’ve seen her cry quite a few times since I left, but I couldn’t really do anything. Sometimes I try to make my presence known, but I’m fairly new to this and I have no idea how to talk to the living. And my family doesn’t believe in ghosts.
What a sad life, eh?
Nobody believed in me when I was alive and nobody believes in me now either.
It’s been two weeks since I died.
I grew up in a family of doctors, and my dad, who’s now fifty, is the snappiest person I’ve known. My mum is the loudest woman I’ve ever met. She can scream loud enough to give any random banshee a run for her money. But my parents have only been this way with me. With other people, they’re nice as eff. And it’s weird to me.
I was supposed to be married in a few months, and every morning my Dad would body-shame me by way of morning greeting.
“You look like a skeletal vulture,” he’d say, “So ugly and malnourished.”
I wasn’t allowed out of the house and nobody took my symptoms seriously. See, mental health issues are always overlooked in Indian households. And when you’re unable to fall asleep, or eat properly and when the whole cycle of body-shaming and abuse becomes super intense, you end up dead.
Which is what happened to me.
I blacked out and fell down the stairs one morning. No one was home and I watched my body lie there for six hours before anyone found me. My mum screamed like a banshee but this time I wasn’t going to wake up, despite all the slapping.
It’s funny how they ignore the living, but try to revive the dead instead.
Madison had just moved into a new apartment with her boyfriend Jonah, a tattoo-artist.
Maddie dressed up as as a vampire on Halloween. Jonah said he loved it, at least a million times, while they were going down to their friend Pete’s, for one of those epic Halloween parties. It was tradition practically. They’d all get drunk and eat too much and just have a good time, and catch up with old friends.
“I wish you’d do your makeup like that everyday,” Jonah kept saying.
Maddie just smiled and looked happy. He’d never complimented her so much before.
The party got wild. Maddie couldn’t remember when or how she went to bed: she was completely wasted.
While brushing her teeth after having overslept, she felt a sharp pain in the face and noticed she’d forgotten to take off her makeup. It was only after she’d gone through two bottles of makeup remover that she realized that Jonah had tattooed on the dark cranberry lipstick on her lips.
…you ugly month, you. I never EVER look forward to November. I never have. For as long as I can remember.
I can’t believe how fast November got here. (Obviously I’m gonna rant now.) In school, it always meant exams. And no Christmas. No presents. No nada. Who wants that? And who the bloody hell wants 2016? Go away November, shoo.
October was a dud. I didn’t do any interesting blog posts, my stats fell faster than a completely sloshed human pyramid, and nobody really reads my posts anymore. What else? I finally got all the makeup that I wanted, only most of it arrived in pieces. I had to do quite some fixing.
I have a question.
One of the little mirrors that come with palettes broke in transit. I couldn’t get it out of the box and so I taped it in. Am I gonna fall “prey to the curse of seven years of bad luck?” Because technically, I didn’t break that mirror. If I died, or went into coma for seven years, and there were no posts from me, please miss me y’all, okay?
Moving on. I’ve read twenty two books in ten days. Go, me. I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace. You know, Zen mode. Reconnecting with all those pages after pages of print and the smell of old books… Mmmm! “Heaven” doesn’t come even close to describing it. La la la.
Meanwhile, I’ve been listening to R-City on loop. That song Locked Away is so friggin’ good. I need song recommendations, y’all. Anything inspiring. Nothing about failed relationships and crap, because I’m waaaaaay over it.
Speaking of November, isn’t this the time that people wear ridiculous shirts with mustache print on ’em? And guys post these photos with copious amounts of facial hair with #noshavenovember? OMG. Which reminds me. I drew on cat whiskers on my face for Halloween yesterday, and the “paint” refused to budge. For 24 hours. (Go, Urban Decay.)
What did you dress up as?
I’m so not looking forward to this month. Are you?
It’s officially holiday season. The whole place smells like pumpkin spice latte. Jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. Kids in costumes.
Somewhere in the shady block, in the shadiest apartment, Shannon pouts in the mirror. Touches up her lipstick. Slips on six-inches-high slasher heels. Picks up her clutch and keys. Heads out.
There’s a man downstairs. Like always.
He’s loaded. Polished. Cologne-d. Chin shaved and aftershaved to perfection. Suit so sharp you could slice a figurative cake with it. And he drives a Ferrari.
She wraps herself around him, like a feathered boa, in her faux fur coat. Her slim body is lithe from all that workout and salsa (and the pole-dancing at that swanky upscale strip club where he first spotted her), and she kisses him passionately enough for the hairs at the back of his neck to prickle. Very feline.
This is only their fourth date, and he’s already showering her with gifts: diamond entrusted bracelets from Tiffany’s. Birkin handbags. Manolo Blahniks. He’s good-looking and he could have had his pick of women. He couldn’t explain what made him gravitate towards Shannon. Never mind her Slavic cheekbones. The long, wavy hair. Her cup size. Her butt. That waist. All of it – au naturale.
He never fell for strippers anyway. This was a first. The first.
Shannon breaks the kiss to grab some air, giggling extra-girlishly and he pats his pocket nervously, checking to see if the little square box is still there. She pretends not to notice.
9 pm. Some fancy restaurant.
He proposes. All the other female patrons near them look over at Shannon, jealous. Of course she says yes. The stripper and the business tycoon.
Always the classic love story.
Only with a twist.
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s lying alone in a ditch. Clothes and phone and car and Rolex and wallet, all gone. He can’t feel his face. He can’t remember who he is. He can’t remember where he is.
She’s in some other shady apartment, in some other shady town, with some new fake id, planning the “execution” of her next victim, all the while thinking how perfect her gift of wiping memories is.
Did y’all like this story? Please let me know! You know your comments keep me going – and I love y’all so, so much!😍😘