Jessie Kensington thought she had escaped her troubled past when she faked her death and started a new life as Violet Arrowood. But three years later, she finds herself at Vanguard University on a scholarship, trying to build the future she always d...
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I can't believe I'm here again. The weight of my life, or what's left of it, presses into my arms as I cradle the same black duffel bag from three years ago. A bitter taste of déjà vu coats my tongue.
I vowed to never let anyone or anything make me run again. I vowed never to put myself in a situation where I wasn't in control and forced to do something I'd regret. But here I am, once again stripped bare, three years older, wiser in some ways, yet foolishly repeating the same mistakes—fleeing from the only place I ever felt remotely safe, until I didn't. The difference between disappearing from a small town like where I grew up and a city run by people with more money than compassion, more brain than heart, is stark. They care about their reputation and have the power to make problems disappear. That's fine—unless you become the problem.
My head jerks up as the bus hits a pothole, jolting me. Adrenaline spikes. I scramble to secure my duffel bag and check that my suitcase is still at my feet. The world outside is a blur of passing trees and buildings.
I look around the bus, my fingers digging into my palm to try and remain present— memories of that night three years ago flood back. Sitting on the bus with the same duffle bag cradled in my lap.
I remember the small group of friends with lipstick and heels, giggling and chatting amongst themselves. The man and woman sitting together with luggage, looking like they were going on holiday. It seemed absurd then, as it does now, that everyone was oblivious to the wreck that was my life. Oblivious to what I had just done.
I open my duffel bag and search through its contents, just as I did that night. My hand settles on my passport, and I pull it open. A girl with long brown hair and light freckled skin stares back at me. She looks like me, she is me. But the name doesn't read Jessie Kensington, it reads Violet Arrowood.
I run my thumb over the photo, looking at the broken girl. "Violet Arrowood," I whisper to myself, surprised by how the name melts on my tongue after three years. I remember how I didn't think I'd have to change my first name too, which is silly to think about now.
A mother boards the bus and sits down in front of me. She turns on her phone, and a photo of her and a young girl—I assume her daughter—appears as her lock screen. The corner of my mouth tugs, thinking about the love between a mother and daughter. Thinking about how I'm someone's daughter too and how that's meant to mean something.
I always wondered how long it took my parents to notice that I was gone. I wanted to know how they would react. The little girl inside of me who didn't know any better, she pretended her mum would care. She hoped that she mourned for her daughter. She hoped that when she realised her little girl wasn't in her bed, that she cried. She cried and screamed and called the police. That little girl inside said She did mourn for her daughter. I convinced myself that she did.
