Happy Endings Are Not Real

Chapter 1

June 15 1992

I sat in a cafe sipping on my warm coffee. The sun seeped through the glass windows, shining over my table and warming my hands.

After my mom's death, I lied my way through everything. Lying isn't bad. Lying can benefit you. For example, when you decide to poison your mum and blame it on suicide

After killing my mother, I stopped killing people because I realised I gained no fulfilment from it, and also it was only troublesome. I'm not sure why I decided to kill my mother, but all I know is I did an outstanding job at it.

It was easy covering the murder, how easily people can fall for a sobbing thirteen-year-old girl.

"I don't know why!" I sobbed, fake tears streaming down my face.

I had a "friend" once.

His name was John.

Knowing John, his behaviour and his truthful personality, he would tell the cops what I did if I told him the truth. He would never lie to the cops, ever.

So, beforehand, I fed him false secrets and acted truthfully so he would believe I wouldn't lie or keep secrets from him because I was practically an open book in his eyes. I even lied about my mother acting strange beforehand, saying she seemed gloomy and our house was constantly messy. The best part is I never let him come to my house because Mama wasn't feeling good.

He helped me a lot in covering the murder because of the fact he vowed for my innocence along with his naive family.

Besides, the only thing friends serve is benefits such as connections. In my case, he had connections to some significant people because of his father, but he wasn't particularly worthwhile.

So, for one hundred and six years, I've been alone. Alone and pleased.

"Ma'am?" A Man walked up to my table.

"It's Dolores."

"Sorry, Dolores." I have time to listen to his banter. I have a whole lifetime to listen. I'm immortal. I'll never die, so time isn't a problem for me. I found that out when I stopped growing at the ripe age of 25. Fully developed and in the beginning of ageing. Well, I would begin to age if I could.

"I saw you from across the cafe and couldn't help but admire you."

Classic mortal giving an invitation for a romantic relationship, I could already sense what he would say next. Why would you waste your life with a 'special' friend anyway? The worst part is you argue with them more than the average friend, which is two times more agitating. Mortals even set up ridiculous ceremonies to show their dedication to each other.

"No thanks." I glanced up at him. His dark blue eyes were wide and staring down at me. My eyes skimmed over his body.

His hair was messy and brown with some white hair strands. Lowering my gaze, I noticed his piercings, four on the ears and one on his left brow. My gaze continued to creep down his face until it landed on the dog collar with spikes wrapped around his neck.

"Why are you wearing a dog collar?"

He grabbed the collar, circling the pink tips of his digits around a spike. He chuckled.

"This isn't a dog collar; it's a choker." I raise a brow. Choker. I've always heard of that name, but I've never seen a choker that had the appearance of a dog collar.

"Why are you wearing it?" Leaning in, I intertwined my fingers, listening closely for why he would wear a dog collar.

"Because I like it, it's my sense of fashion." Fashion is always ever-changing, never sticking to one style, and sometimes, they repeat styles that would've been considered the standard centuries ago. That is part of why I don't follow the fashion standards anymore. It makes sense why mortals follow fashion standards. In their lifetime, there would only be a handful of styles. But for me? I've gone through a lot.

"Well, sorry for interrupting your afternoon." With that, he walked away, leaving me alone in peace. Though glad he was gone, I felt an emptiness in my chest. I glanced at the window, my face reflecting off the transparent surface. Most people would look at their reflection and instantly recognise who they were looking at. But when I looked, it wasn't me. It was a shell. A shell I called myself.

Who am I?

***

Cracking my apartment door open, I slithered in, past the white walls of my hall and straight to my bedroom. I flopped onto my bed, planting my face into the pillow.

Tired, I'm tired.