Poison Apple

Reincarnation

I woke up to an annoyed call drifting into my head.

"Wake up, Antonovka!  You'll be late for school!"

My eyes flew wide open and I sat up gasping, clenching the bedsheets. A throbbing pain started in my temples, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear it.

Iron shoes...my stepdaughter gliding away in a gilt wedding dress...the old woman...had she been a witch? No, not her. I had been the witch. Yes, it was all coming back now.

Upon opening my eyes again, I studied these strange new surroundings. The bed I could at least recognize. There was a small table pushed up against it, and a larger one with an odd chair that had wheels connected to its legs. A flimsy oak door was slightly ajar. The rest was a mystery.

Shakily sliding my reluctant legs out of the blankets, I sighed as my feet touched a soft, veiled floor, like a rug, just scrubbier. Carpet. The word echoed in my mind as if the Story had reached out a finger and placed it in the mind of this body. It in fact, had.

"Antonovka! Вы будете поздно! You will be late!"

Russian. The Story placed the word in my brain. My Figure was Russian.

"I'm coming!" I called out weakly, trying to adjust to hearing my new voice. I brushed myself off and hurriedly set out around the room, patting the surfaces, looking for a mirror. Finding one with a plastic handle, I brought it up to my face and stared.

I looked exactly the same. As same as I could be.

Dark hair fell in sheaths around a pale face, set with envy green eyes and thin, pursed lips paired with sallow cheeks. I was a mirror image of my former body. Groaning, I slammed my head down against the pale green walls of the bedroom and closed my eyes.

Open the drawers, the Story commanded in my head. Without warning, my legs swung me towards a simply carved dresser, and my arms instinctively pulled it open.

In horror, I held up something like a short sleeved dress bodice. Where was the rest of it? The next drawer yielded something like trousers, dark blue, tough fabrics, and humiliatingly form fitting. I'd never seen anything like these before, and it was horrifying that I was being forced to wear this. 

Grimacing, I slide the too tight, too revealing garments on. The pants are made of a tough, dark blue fabric, slightly rough to the touch and the buttons press sharply on my waistline. How immodest. 

The breakfast is too odd, small hard, pressed flakes of grain in milk that tastes thin and too cold. There's a glass of opaque orange liquid too, that tastes too acidic. But it's citrus, and I wonder how much it must have cost. It was rare back in the village. 

Then I'm ushered out, my feet moving of their own accord. I just follow along knowing it's useless to resist. The journey's a blur, a long yellow bus that moves and creaks like a hay wagon, the building that they call a school too large, like a castle with sparse decorations. 

Then I see her. Her features loom up in my peripheral vision, a sharp contrast from all the others people. Raven hair slicked back from the front, naturally red lips that I know haven't been painted and a porcelain complexion.