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

18

nepenthe

(n.) something that can make one forget grief or suffering

***

I never forget anything about my past lives.

I keep every lesson I have learned in the back of my mind, pulling them out as needed in the hopes that, the second time around, I will not make the same mistakes.

Normally, when I am assaulted by memories—like those of Kay, Bean, and every other death—I remain in the present moment, the flashbacks subconscious and not overwhelming.

But nine of my deaths were learning experiences.

My third death was hell and affected me far more than I care to admit.

My third death was riddled with heartbreak and abuse.

My third death is not one I revisit often, if ever.

The main reason behind this avoidance is, I believe, solely because I have never been able to stay lucid when reminiscing about the nightmare that was well-hidden inside the beauty of Tamara Ainsworth.

Like in this moment now, when I can barely feel Abel's touch as he guides me into the apartment, his movements efficient as he locks the door behind us and leads me to the couch.

He sits me down, and I stare at him with wide, glazed eyes, my breaths short and choppy.

"Vivian," he calls, his voice muffled, as though it is coming from an entirely different room. "Vivian, look at me. Look at me, Vivian. Vivian!"

Sucking in a shaky breath, my eyes snap to his, and I try to find comfort in those dark orbs; they are not the calm, cool that they normally are, though, and the worry in them only increases my panic.

"I-I can't—" I throw myself off the couch, pacing the length of the living room and running my hands through my hair.

The action doesn't help, and when I see the dyed red of my locks I am reminded of my past once more.

"It's the wrong color," I realize, my feet stalling and horror racing through my body and setting my nerves on fire.

She shouldn't have known it was me. It's not the right color. I changed it. I changed it so this wouldn't happen!

"Not the right color," I whine to Abel when his concerned features appear in my line of vision once more, my hands trembling as I tug at the locks. "She shouldn't have known. It's different—I changed it! Abel, I, Abel, I changed it! Abel—"

"Breathe," Abel soothes, one of his hands coming up to grab mine and tug it away from my hair while his other pushes the strands out of my sight. "Breathe, Vivian. Just breathe for a moment."

"But, Abel, you don't understand! Abel—" I am silenced when he pulls me forward, dipping his head to catch my gaze but otherwise allowing me to remain free and unrestrained.

"I need you to breathe," he tells me, his tone firm but not unkind. "Breathe," he repeats. "Just breathe for me, Vivian. In and out. Nice and slow."

But how can I?

I was never supposed to be faced with my past again, especially not like this.

And, for the first time in a long, long time, I feel truly out of control. It is as though I am piloting a sailboat, but I have just lost my rudder and sail; I am at the mercy of the sea now.

And I am terrified.

"Repeat after me: One." I'm not even sure how his voice breaks through the haze of anxiety thrumming through my every pore.