The Girl With the Golden Hair

Chapter One

I remember, back when I was alive and stuck in my room at the top of this dingy old tower, my Mother would bring me home some DVD's to watch on this really old TV she had. One of her boyfriends, this one rich, got her a brand new TV so she didn't need her old one. It was constantly on the blink. Sometimes, I'd have to punch it a few times to get the screen to be clear. But it was entertainment, and you get bored with endless days of nothing. 

Anyway, in a pile of those car boot sales she told me about she found something called Groundhog Day. Where every single day, every waking moment, was identical to the last. I remember thinking my days were like that. In a way, they were. I might have baked different things, made different candles, watched different movies but I was still rarely doing anything new. 

If I could go back to my old self, I would tell her that now I really was doing the same thing everyday. This is worse. There's no sleeping or enjoying food. Those things don't exist when you're dead. Why would you need sleep, or need food? I have no body. I'm a roaming spirit.

Maybe I wouldn't tell her, though. She was blissfully unaware of the life she was living. Regardless of her circumstance, she found a way to be happy. Not to mention, back then, I thought my Mother really did love me. More importantly, I thought she was actually my Mother. I was on the brink of finding out when...

It doesn't matter now. I will never find out who my real family is. I can't leave this tower. My soul is forever tied down here. I can only roam where I roamed in life and, well...I never left this tower. 

Except, once upon a time, I must have done. Unless my real mother gave birth to me here, my baby self must have traveled to get here. Maybe it wasn't recent enough. I've tried jumping out of the windows. Every window I can find. I've tried leaving the door on the ground floor. I've even tried walking through the walls. There is no leaving, I am trapped. 

Just as alone in death as I was in life. 

I walked around the room I had lived in for eighteen years. The bathroom was still there, right where left it. All the lotions and potions covering the sink. The tampons neatly boxed next to the toilet seat. The shower curtain a bright, neon pink. I miss showering. Obviously, I don't need to, but there was something comforting about standing under warm water and allowing all the dirt and grime to be cleaned away. I'd resurface, smelling of rose, feeling brand new. My long, long golden locks took forever to dry. The heaviness of it was enough to give me a headache. 

I had my own kitchen in the corner of the room. There was nothing to separate it from the rest of the room, other than the floor being different. The rest of the room was purple carpet. The kitchen floor was fake wood. I found my love of baking when Mother brought home a cookbook one afternoon. She tossed it on the floor and said the recipes were too complicated. I was to ask for any ingredients I needed and that was that. My room smelt heavenly day after day. 

And then my mother was even more adamant I should not leave my tower. She claimed I had become overweight, and I was never going to be accepted in the outside world. There were fat people in all the movies I watched and books I read, though. They weren't treated that well, sure, but they weren't...murdered. 

I chuckled a soundless laugh at the irony. 

Murdered by my Mother. Maybe they'll turn that into one of those BBC TV documentaries. I'd watch it.