Checkpoint Regression

Lying on the cold floor of my detention cell, the moonlight peek through the window, illuminating my hair. Once scarlet, now it's nothing more than a few strands of white. Tears trickle down as I remember my mother's final wish,

"Live your life."

I was only 10 years old, still yearning for the warmth my mother gave before she was taken.

As I lie withdrawn, my eyes dart to my sore feet. Blood seeps slowly from the torn flesh of my feet, little by little, pooling on the ground. The moon is slowly obscured by clouds. Darkness swallows my cell. The emptiness feels all too comfortable now. 

I trace the tear tracks on my face, then the burnt flesh on my body, remembering the days I had been tortured. 

"HEY!" a voice shouts, followed by the sound of the metal door opening. 

As I slowly turn my head, I notice a distorted person staring back at me. My vision is blurry from being tortured every day for however many days I've spent here.

"Here. Drink it," the guard snarls, his voice filled with animosity.

He tosses a small vial near me. I struggle to sit up, my whole body is sore. I stare at the vial for a moment as death looms over me. I cautiously lift the vial to my mouth with my trembling hands. I lean my head back and pour the drink into my mouth. 

It's unpleasant.

Painful as it passes down my throat. I feel it burning my insides as it travels down.

Poison– of course. Foolish to hope for otherwise.

The guard sneers. Though I can't see his face, I can feel his hatred for me. He shackles my hands and drags me to my execution stand.

"I will finally obtain peace in death," I mumble, struggling to move the muscles in my legs. 

With each step I leave a trail of bloody footprints.

"What? Did you say something, vermin?" he tugs the shackles hard. 

I stumble almost tripping over. I'm not sure when things started going downhill, but it would be a lie to say I had lived a good life. I spent most of my time in agony and the ones to inflict it are my so-called family. 

Without my mother to protect me in her embrace, I was to live in the cold, in the dark– away from the outside world. I was confined to my room half of the time. The other half, I spent in the library. 

It was the only way for me to remember my mother. I would re-read the stories that she used to read to me to feel nostalgia, to remember her voice.

One day, I was forced to be engaged to a dreadful man because it was beneficial for my father's business. My fiancé was caught having an affair with my sister. My father–the ever so amazing and honorable–swept it all under the rug. Swiftly put an end to all the rumors. My ex-fiancé and sister were betrothed. 

I was nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded. It was anything but living– painful and awkward. 

As I'm being led to the guillotine, I can hear the audience cheering. It's almost as if a festival is taking place. We approach the execution stand, the guard hauls me, such force that I collapse to the ground. I keep a neutral expression on my face. I don't want to give them what they want.

I kneel and push my head through the guillotine. As a result of the poison, my cloudy vision progresses to blindness. I can taste iron in my mouth and feel blood flow down my cheeks in place of tears. People casting hateful remarks. 

They are ecstatic, as if they are freed from horror.

"Any last words?" The executioner asks.

I look in the direction of the seats where my supposed family would be.

With a soft sore throat and hatred that has been burning in my heart,

"I curse you all, you pigs," I utter with the strength left in me.

I close my eyes, waiting for the cold blade to touch my neck. A soft eluding whisper. It isn't from the crowd—something from within.

The sky wails with thunder, and the wind blows in a roar as a storm rages. The sound of the storm drowns the whisper. I didn't hear what it said properly. 

SLING—

The blade falls. 

A pointless death, a pointless life, many trials just to end here. 

A small sting, I let out my final breath. A relief from misery. 

"That's warm…", I mumble, tossing in bed. 

"..." I pause in confusion.

"Warm?...warm?" I repeat, confused. 

Gasp 

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 sit up and 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.