The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

17

kalopsia

(n.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are

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TW: Take care of yourselves.

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As a foster kid who's jumped from home to orphanage to homeless shelter and back again, I am not used to owning things. When I was fifteen returning to my foster house from school, I kind older woman saw me and gave me the knitted scarf from around her neck.

"You look cold," she had told me gently, winding the fuzzy material around my neck carefully. "I think you need to eat more, dear, but this'll help in the meantime." And then she had waved and walked off, leaving me standing in the midst of a snowstorm but feeling warmer than ever.

I only kept that scarf for thirty minutes.

Upon entering the house that I shared with a foster father (who cared more about money from the government than he did us) and eleven other kids, I was immediately assaulted by one of the largest boys.

"Oh look," he'd sneered, "Viv's got a scarf—how nice."

I told him to piss off, of course, but he didn't like that; he knocked me in the stomach, ripped the scarf from around my neck, and burned it in the fireplace "as kindling."

After that incident, I resigned myself to never really 'owning' anything—at least not until I made it out of the system, anyway. But then, several months after the scarf-burning incident, I came to the conclusion that there was one thing I did, do, and always will, own: my name.

My biological parents left me as an infant in an alley dumpster for a good Samaritan to find and bring to the nearest orphanage, where a note was found with only two words—Vivian Travers. Now, I don't hate my parents, nor do I miss them; I could care less about where they are or what they're doing, in fact, but my name is the only thing I have ever had. It is the one thing that no one can ever take from me, no matter how hard they try. Although I change my last name the minute I move to a new location, I have never been able to let go of my first name.

Vivian. That is who I am, and I will always be Vivian, regardless of how many times I live and die.

Of course, staring into the shocked eyes of a woman from my past, I decide that perhaps I should have changed my first name after all.

"Vivian," the woman chokes. "Right? Vivian."

I blink dumbly, well aware of Abel standing next to me; I can practically feel the suspicion wafting off him as he no doubt tries to determine who this woman is to me, how she knows me, and why I'm speechless.

"Oh, my goodness," she continues, "they told me you were dead!"

Ah, there is it is—the crux of the whole problem.

Abel stiffens beside me. "What's going on?" he bends down and hisses in my ear. "What is she talking about?"

My brain, spluttering as it is, somehow connects to my mouth and causes me to breathe, "Naomi."

You idiot! Why the hell would you say that? You could've played it off and said you were someone else! What the hell is wrong with you?

But it is Naomi. It is Naomi, and I cannot pretend to ignore Naomi.

She looks good, I note, my stunned eyes traveling over her figure. She is still blessed with gentle curves and a beautiful smile, and her dark but graying hair looks natural and effortless in its shoulder-length curls. "Vivian," she murmurs again, taking a step forward.