When I walk down the street, not everyone recognizes me. That is a relief.

People who do know of my condition will often stare at me as I pass. Watching me as if I were a mutant freak.

I don’t know, I guess I could be.

If I’m ever wearing anything that shows skin, people will see the scars that I have. They give me similar looks, even if they don’t realize what they’re from.

What makes me so popular, and in a small degree famous, is the fact that I am cursed. I have the worst luck that any one person has ever had.

My curse has caused me to be the subject of multiple articles and news reports. Ones of me falling down a mountain due to my brand new equipment breaking, or having my home destroyed by an asteroid.

Yeah, that really happened.

The latest one is that I was struck by lightning and killed. And then struck again, which restarted my heart. So I “survived” and was struck by lightning twice.

Sucks to be me, that shit hurts.

The thing that started all of the attention though, was the most tragic misfortune of them all.

Both my parents were killed in a car crash. They were in the back seat, I was driving, and it was a head-on collision.

Tell me how that makes sense! How does that happen??

After that story, they labelled me as “The Luckiest Girl Alive.” What an uncredible stroke of luck to survive that when even the people in the back seat didn’t.

That wasn’t a stroke of luck. That was Luck pissing on me and having a laugh afterwards by keeping me alive.

I was intensive care for weeks after that, had to do physical therapy, and started going to a regular therapist.

Until I depressed him so bad that he killed himself.

I like to avoid people now. They always gawk and make big fusses over what I’ve been through. “Wow, how are you still alive?” I normally leave after that one.

Not to mention that when anyone else is introduced to my curse, they don’t live through it like I always seem to.

I despise the attention that my curse gets. I despise my curse as well.

It never ends. I’ve survived jumping off a building. It hurt like hell and I was broken pretty much everywhere, but I survived.

I’ve been hit by a bus, two cars, had rabies because of an animal bite, been bitten by three venomous animals, stepped on four different nails - two of which were rusty and I had to have a tetanus shot.

The list just goes on and on.

Once, when I was a kid, I was playing near an old shed. One of the windows was broken, so in all of my 5 or 6 year old wisdom I was taking the broken chunks of glass and setting them on a large rock nearby. Then, I would grab smaller rocks and chuck them at the glass.

I assume it was to watch it shatter, I don’t know why else I’d do that. Anyways, I threw a rock at one particular piece and it shattered more than the rest I guess. One of the pieces of glass flew at my face and I shielded my face with my arms.

I don’t actually remember anything that happened after that. No idea who found me, who helped me, if I cried, the hospital, recovering… anything. I just know that I have a scar on my wrist from that day.

That is one moment that I’ll say I was hella lucky, because it didn’t hit any of my veins, despite being super close to them.

I think. Can’t remember and my folks are gone.

I do remember my parents always telling me that I was extremely accident prone, so I guess I’ve been like this forever.

By the time I was three I’d broken two bones and had to have surgery. Not sure what the surgery was for, I always forget that one.

I think that when I was younger, I really was lucky. Some of the shit that happened was so close to being bad.

When I was maybe one, I ended up getting a pencil in my eye. They say that I pulled it out myself but the lead stayed in and I had to go to the hospital. Anymore to the right or left, and I would’ve been blind in that eye.

That’s lucky as hell.

But eventually, my luck morphed into something else. Something… dangerous and cruel.

Almost as if Luck got sick if dealling with me, and started throwing a twist on everything to show me that it was sick of me.

I’m getting pretty sick of me too. Extra sick of seeing myself on the news or reading about me.

Maybe one day my luck will run out and the curse will be broken. Or maybe I’ll live past the average life expectancy.

Nothing phases or suprises me much anymore, so I guess we’ll see.

Santa Cruz is beautiful.

It’s that city where the sun blankets the sand with that perfect touch of warmth. It’s where the palm tree trunks stretch so high they meet the cloudless sky right in the middle. It’s where all the perfectly tanned girls lay side by side under gigantic umbrellas, laughing at the randomest things.

It’s where my mom took my hand, and we both ran into the royal blue waves screaming with excitement. It’s where I, with my l sounding like a w because no five year old knows how to make a perfect l sound, squealed “I wuv you mommy!”. It’s where my mom wrapped her arms around me and told me in a hushed voice “I love you too, Melodie. no matter what happens, i’ll never push you away. You are my happiness.” as the rippling waves slowly floated us back to shore.

We were a beautiful family living in a cozy home once.

But life threw a bloody punch when my sister was born, because my mom started drinking.

Afterwards, that beauty dried up and stopped fitting. Our cozy home sprinkled with a cinnamon smell turned into a one room apartment with deep gray walls and only a singular lightbulb for the whole room.

I didn’t want to give up though. I begged my mom to get help. I invested hours toward research on ways to make easy money when my mom quit her job. I cleaned and cooked, payed as many bills as I could, and made sure my little sister, Lillie, made it to school every morning. After we lost our house, I still continued to do everything I could to keep our family going.

However, my mom kept drinking, never found a new job, married a horrible man, and continued to spend her days rotting in bed. I screamed at her, and even made her cry. Yet, it all continued. Her anger eventually took over, and soon, she locked herself in the only bedroom we owned, and left Lillie and I, on the other side, hopelessly pounding on her door.

Last night, my stepfather threatened to leave my mother penniless if she didn’t open the door. She opened the door, and said “Leave, Mark. Take the girls with you.” her voice shook “Please.” And that was the last straw for me. “Mom, no.” “Yes, this has to be done.” “Mom, you promised!” I cry. “This is where I belong, Melody. This is where I want to be, can’t you understand that?! I don’t want to quit drinking. I don’t want to do any of it. I just want a break. So you either leave, or I will _never _talk to you again.” Her drunken red eyes were glaring at me as she bluntly added “You are a burden to my happiness, Melodie, so just LEAVE!” Then, Lillie scampered out the door leaving me there, my tears staining my ragged shirt. I grabbed my red coat, and stormed out.

That’s how I ended up here, my hands shaking as the frigid wind blows, causing my braids to flap wildly every which way. Lillie is looking at me, tears in her eyes.

Mark yells “Are you going to get in the car?!” from the driver’s seat of his van, which is crammed with garbage, leaving barely any room for Lillie and me.

“Mellie, we have to go.” Lillie whimpers. The first thing that crosses my mind is that Mark gave us a choice. If we choose to go with him, then we both get stuck with a horrible man who doesn’t care for us. But if we don’t… We’d be free.

With that, I grab Lillie’s arm, and we run.

A few days later

We’re famous.

After we ran away and my stepfather lost us for good, he called the cops, and my mother locked herself in the house. Apparently, she’s refusing to unlock the door, so the police has no idea who we are except for my stepfather’s meek description he gave.

Everyone is talking about us though. People lean closer when they hear our names. Men shake their heads at the mention of us. Ladies put their hands over their hearts and cry out “Oh, those poor little girls!”. Moms hold their children close, and children imagine all these crazy scenarios. “They’re on a private jet flying to Antartica!” says one. “They turned invisible!” says another. “They grew their body hair out and turned into chimpanzees!” is a common one. What’s ironic is that everyone makes up these stories about us, but no one takes into account that we could be hidden on the back of a bus right now, homeless and scared to death. Because that’s exactly where we are right now. We’re going to California, because when I was researching, I read that one of the best homeless shelters is there. We’ll make a home there for now, and then I’ll start looking for jobs. It’ll be nice in California. Maybe I could visit Santa Cruz. What I really want though is to go home. Then, walk in the kitchen and fall into my mom’s arms. I miss my mom. My heart feels so broken. I’ve been believing for all these years, and that has just led us here. I don’t even know what we’re going to do if the police finds us. I don’t even know what day it is anymore. All I have left is this unforgiving world and a shattered picture frame of a past that is long gone now.

Sincerely, Caralia🫶🏼

School is taking up all my time😭 but hope you guys enjoy 🫶🏼🫶🏼

Would you choose eternal peace and happiness without a hitch? Would you choose popularity and being infinitely rich? Between love and fame which one is best? What would you choose between recognition or eternal rest? Is it really worth losing who you are? All because you wanted to be a star? Would you rather family of fans? Would you rather singing with family or only with bands? Would you pick selflessness or gain? Would you pick soul or fame?

—— This short story is not part of my canon just yet. But it might be. Anyways, enjoy!~ ☆

⚠️ ‼️ ✖︎ IN CASE YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE TITLE MEANS, TRIGGER WARNING FOR VIOLENCE AND BLOOD ✖︎‼️ ⚠️

♪

Special-effects smoke sprays onto the platform.

Light flash on.

Glitch runs onto the stage, smirking that fanged, vampish smirk that the fans always go crazy for.

“Good afternoon, LA!”He greets, his voice amplified by the microphone and ringing through the venue. The audience screams out cheers, throwing their hands in the air. Girls close to the stage are shrieking and squealing, swooning over that perfect blonde hair and those perfect, sharp yellow eyes, and that muscular body, hugged by a varsity jacket and ripped jeans. Big, black bat-like wings that spread to create a magnificent silhouette. As Glitch sings and dances, the band playing behind him, his mind flickers back to how he ended up here in the first place. How he’d be totally screwed if anyone ever discovered his fame’s origins.

♪

Glitch stands over the dead and bloody corpse of Aaron Smith, famous song maker known as HIJACK. He only made beats and tunes, his voice and face remaining anonymous. He planned to do a reveal at his upcoming concert. Little did he know, it wouldn’t be his face making an appearance. Glitch would be taking his place. He’d already hacked the man’s accounts. That was phase one. Phase two, track down the real HIJACK. And step three? __ __ Kill HIJACK and replace him in his life without anyone ever realizing. __ Now the job was done. Glitch’s mouth curves into a mad, sadistic grin. _ __ ** **“Sleep tight, HIJACK~”_

As promised, I awakened to a sky so dark I couldn’t help but question if it were truly morning. My bed called to me, begging me to stay wrapped in the warm, cozy embrace of my blanket, and the strong arms of my fiancé. Tempting as it was, I had to decline. Today was a special day, marking ten years since my life changed forever.

As part of the day’s tradition, I prepared a generous helping of scrambled eggs, crispy maple bacon, and the thickest Belgian waffles I’d ever seen. To drink, my love and I would have my favorite autumn beverage, hot apple cider.

I gazed hopelessly through the tall windows. If anyone had told my younger self that I’d live in a penthouse with the man of my dreams, I wouldn’t have believed them. I wouldn’t have believed that my debut novel, now eight years old, would get me here.

“Morning, Em.” Hunter greeted me with his hands slipping around my waist, and a tender kiss on the left side of my head. He took a moment to gently nuzzle my chestnut hair, but despite his affection, it made me cringe. “You know I don’t like to be touched there.” I nearly whisper, tightening my grip on the knife. “I know, I’m sorry.” He pecked one more kiss on my cheek, calming my nerves before he pulled away. “What time are we heading out?” Hunter asked, carrying his mug to the table.

I had to break the news to him, and hoped he wouldn’t ask questions. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the delicious scent of breakfast. “…I was actually thinking of going alone.” I said, carrying our plates to the table. “Why?” He asked, furrowing his brow. “What happened to following our routine? Remember when you freaked out on me for suggesting we stop by the hospital?” “This year feels…different.” I frowned. “More personal, somehow… I’d like to be alone, maybe go for a drive.” “Do you wanna talk about it?” He asked, holding my hand. “I’m here for you.” “I know, but I’m fine. I’ll stop by the cemetery, take that package over to my mother, then see you for dinner.” “All right.” He sighed. “Be careful… I love you.” Those three words melted my heart and put a smile on my face. I hated lying to him, but if he knew the truth, he’d intervene.

I didn’t lie about the cemetery. For my friends, my sisters, I brought them each a beautiful white rose. This was the first time I hadn’t left them a bouquet, simply because I couldn’t stomach the gesture any longer. They weren’t there, resting below those gravestones. Everyone knew it. Their bodies, as many believed, were somewhere in the mountains.

_We were seniors in high school, ready to create the best memories before heading our separate ways for college. Naya, my best friend, came up with this writing project for us back in tenth grade. We were going to start working on our debut novels, then share and critique them at the start of senior year. We were ecstatic, and though it was hard trying to keep our ideas to ourselves, we prevailed. _ The time to share had finally arrived, but we agreed that moment, our moment, deserved so much more than our little corner of the library.

“What about Harlow’s Peak?” Megan suggested. Harlow’s Peak had been a popular campsite in the mountains, and the cabin by the lake was said to be the best spot. Ten out of ten ratings, perfect for family, friends, couples. Perfect for our little writing retreat. We had to go.

“Not a good idea. It’s not safe.” Cereza’s words haunted me ever since. Like a tattoo on my brain, I’d wake up to those words every morning, and fall asleep to them at night. __

_Cereza had always been a strange, quiet girl. I could never describe her as anything other than a living, breathing, gothic porcelain doll. From the way she dressed, to her beautiful, thick black curls, to her piercing ice blue eyes, and she had the most adorable freckles. _ __ __ __ A beautiful girl like her could’ve easily been the most popular in school, but she wasn’t. People called her a freak. Her life was like a horror movie, and because of that, we didn’t listen to her warning about the men who terrorized Harlow’s Peak wearing Halloween masks. It had me and Alexis spooked, but Megan and Naya really wanted to go, and convinced everyone we’d be safe.

Our trip was set for the weekend, right before Halloween. The plan was to leave Friday after school, share our stories, then get back to my house by Saturday night to get ready for Hunter’s Halloween party.

In the early hours of our little retreat, we had a blast. We took pictures, played a few games, had breakfast for dinner, and read snippets of our manuscripts before exchanging our first chapters. We were in the middle of reading when our trip took a turn for the worst. Those men showed up, and terrorized us the entire night.

I had taken a blow to the head, and was almost strangled to death, but managed to survive that nightmare.

Ever since that night, people stopped camping at Harlow’s Peak. Nowadays, only the brave would venture out there to checkout the cabin by the lake, and explore the woods.

The cabin’s windows and doors were boarded up, and covered in old caution tape that dangled in the wind. I couldn’t imagine what it looked like inside. Standing on the porch was enough to make my heart beat out of my chest.

“I miss you, girls.” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes as I rested the bouquet of white roses on the ground. I glanced down at the package in my hand, but movement in the woods pulled my attention away. My heart sunk. Hanging from one of the trees was a little plush lion that used to belong to Naya. It was the last gift her grandfather had given her before he died. I had to be seeing things. I had to be wrong.

My feet pulled me closer and closer, crunching the blanket of leaves, until they froze. I stood face to face with this stuffed animal, my eyes fixed on its right foot where Naya’s name had been stitched on. My eyes wandered further into the woods, widening as they landed on Megan’s favorite blue cardigan.

I had to get them back. They didn’t belong here. I untied the lion, rushed over and freed the cardigan. “Hey!” I shouted at the person ahead of me, watching them run away from a green and white sneaker that belonged to Alexis. I ran to retrieve it, and realized it had been laced with a ribbon that Cereza used to wear. They had no right to disrespect my friends, especially not today. I searched for them, screamed for them until my throat was on fire. I wanted to kill them.

“Stop!” I shouted, watching them enter one of the other cabins. Without hesitation, perhaps it was the adrenaline, I followed them. “Looking for me?” They asked, lowering their hood, turning my skin pale as a ghost.

“Cereza.” I whispered. “Y-you’re awake?” “I’ve been awake for the last six years.” She said, her eyes fixed on the package. “I see you brought that with you. Planning to burn it?” “You sent me this?” I questioned. “Why? What’s the point?” “Open it.” She commanded, turning her attention to her phone. I rested the box on the table and tore it open. I’d received this package a week ago. Inside was a manuscript, detailing the events that took place that night. I couldn’t understand why she would send me this.

“Cereza….why?” I asked, desperate for answers. “To refresh your memory.” She lowered her phone. “You changed a lot, and left out some details in your book. You said you didn’t know who hit you over the head. Why didn’t you tell everyone it was me?”

“Y-you were in a coma. I didn’t want people coming to hurt you.” “Bullshit. You painted both of us in a heroic light because I survived. You wanted to stay on my good side. According to my family, people wouldn’t stop coming to the hospital to find out if I’d woken up, so they had me relocated. It’s funny. Before, and after the move, they said Hunter used to visit me four times a week. That stopped when he started dating you.”

“That’s not true.” I protested. “Why would they lie? Why would Hunter lie? You knew he loved me.” “No. No! This is crazy, Cereza!” I shouted, slamming the manuscript on the table. “You made me sound like a monster! Like I planned the whole thing!” “You did. Those men were never caught. You failed to mention that the man in the clown mask, the one you locked me in the basement with, was your brother.”

I took a deep breath, carried her manuscript to the trash, and used my lighter to burn it. “…No one would believe you, Cereza. If anything, they’re more likely to believe you were the mastermind behind that night. You were the school freak, not me.” “They’ll believe me when they find the bodies buried beneath this cabin. They’ll believe me, because where you saw an opportunity for a book deal, your brother saw something a little more cinematic. I know what he released online, and I’ve seen what he kept for himself.” She explained.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, as calmly as I could. My phone began to vibrate an endless stream of notifications. I wanted to shut my phone off, until I saw a message from Hunter.

**_What the fuck is going on?! What is this?!

_**I opened his text, and with trembling hands, I clicked the link he sent me. It was the footage from that night. I saw myself on that screen, pulling off my own mask, aiming that gun at Cereza. I saw the emails, the plans my brother and I sent to each other.

The manuscript Cereza had sent me… It couldn’t be the only copy. I had no idea if, or when the world would read it, but after this video….they wouldn’t need to.

Tragedy made me famous But really more infamous Death of the other Someone like a brother Trial of a century But they did not convict me Instead I became loved While some other shoved But I’m still here All of you should fear

I can hear my breathing, heavy and panicked. I don’t know where I am. I try to open my eyes but it’s dark. I’m blindfolded.

The material is thick and scratchy on my face. A piece of cotton is making my mouth dry. It’s hard to breathe.

Tingling shoots down my legs as my body starts to come to. I try to move but I can’t. I’m restrained.

I start to panic, my chest is tight as I hyperventilate and choke on the gag.

Where am I?

What happened?

Where is my family?

I wiggle my fingers, trying to free myself with no luck. I am not thinking clearly. I am so afraid.

Footsteps…

I hear footsteps. Someone is here and I have a feeling they are not here to help me.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a deep masculine voice sounds behind me. I know that voice, I would know that voice anywhere.

Ty Lile, a serial killer that had been running rampant in Spokane is standing behind me.

He has my family… or he killed them.

The blindfold lifts from my eyes and I jump. Coming back to reality I realize that I am sitting in a makeup chair, a soft brush gently spreading blush on my cheek.

I’m okay, I tell myself, I’m okay.

Just preparing for another interview with yet another news outlet about the serial killer who spared me 10 years ago.

Why I was spared but my husband and sister were not, I don’t have the answer to.

But, the news and true crime podcasts eat that shit up. And the fame that comes with being the “spared victim” is very lucrative.

I’d be a good not to capitalize on that.

I take a deep breath, pushing the horrid memories down deeper.

It’s showtime.

I don’t know how to begin this “little” tale of mine; it feels as if I’m making a joke out of the situation by calling it “little,” but that’s what everyone in my life refers to it as. That’s only because they weren’t present when it happened; I don’t expect second-handers to understand, anyway.

Everyday I wake up and hate myself. The mirrors that I used to stare in, dolling myself up with a joyous smile were covered. I try to keep up appearances to not make people concerned, but daily, someone has to point out an error. “Oh, dear your makeup is smudge,” or “your hair is sticking out.” I play it off as waking up late and rushing, but I believe that excuse is wearing thin. I can’t even sleep in my bed like I used to. “A bear in hibernation” is what my friends used to refer to me as, but closing my eyes is an act I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

I sit in front of cameras daily as reporters get me to recount the story; it happened years ago, yet they still bring it up. Despite the career I have as an actor and activist, they never want to know what I’m currently doing until it’s close to ending. No matter how the words leave — no word straying from what happened, no exaggeration made to gain sympathy points as my eyes glaze over in a daze, mind trying to distance itself from the reoccurring memories while simultaneously digging them up like a madwoman — people always act interested and give the same words of encouragement and condolences. I know they don’t care anymore and that I’m being used as some paper woman for a cause. I know people want to hear different things, yet my throat closes whenever I try to suggest another topic, like I’m only made to repeat the damn story for the rest of my life.

Finishing up interviews gives me a breath of relief; I feel free, yet trapped altogether. I want a break, but I fear if I try to gain one, I’ll be viewed as someone who doesn’t care and is only using it for my own gain rather than to help prevent. I want to prevent, but I also want to drown in a bottle and hope I don’t come to; it’s hard to decide what’s more important.

At dinner, once the news comes back about the interview being a success, everyone is giddy, knowing that their moneymaker doesn’t need replacing. Even my friends who I confide in are heavy in laughter, nearly doubling over the table at whatever piss poor joke leaked from my mother’s mouth. Despite knowing the effect everything had, they always make jokes out of it, like it’s something deserving in a comedic hall. I believe it’s my fault it’s gotten this far, anyway; I never tried to stop or correct them when they over exaggerated — or under explain — some parts of the story. There wasn’t anything in me that cared, like I’ve become numb to the things I once preached to a choir about. It’s funny. I was vocal about a lot of things. Now, the moment someone mentions the event with more humor than dignity, it’s like a zipper is superglued zipped in my throat.

‘His death isn’t funny!’ is what I want to tell them, ‘he was the love of my life!’ I need to scream, ‘he loved you all!’ I wish to plead. None of the words leave, and I truly understand one thing: I’m pathetic…

That bottle does look rather appetizing now.

It was never supposed to work. She was never supposed to… die…

But the injuries were too great. Too much blood spilled.

Now she’s dead. And it’s all my fault.

Dahlia and I shared the stage at the theater downtown. God, was she talented. Always securing the leading role, embodying each character with effortless grace and a radiant smile. Her tanned skin and curly blonde hair, a beautiful chaos, somehow always elegant.

But after years—years—I grew weary of living in her shadow.

I was great. But she was spectacular.

I was pretty. But she was beautiful.

How I craved her curves, her soft green eyes. I longed for the standing ovation, the accolades that were hers alone.

Eventually, my envy festered into something darker. I devised a plan, one so wicked and fatal that I questioned my own resolve. But I went through with it.

I knew she was deathly allergic to poppy flowers. So I concealed some in a bouquet, delivering it anonymously.

Reflecting now, it seems so petty.

That night, during the final scene, she collapsed on our makeshift balcony. She rolled, fell—right onto another actor wielding a sword. None of us realized how sharp those “play” swords could be. Not until it pierced her sternum.

I leaped from my position, rushing to her side, desperate to staunch the blood flowing from her wound. It was never supposed to escalate like this. I was blind to the depths of my actions.

The audience, hundreds of eyes, witnessed my anguish as I screamed for my friend, shoving away anyone who dared approach. I did everything I could. But it was not enough.

Now, I’m known as the Girl Wearing Crimson. The girl who watched her friend die, standing in her blood-soaked dress for hours afterward—all born from my unspeakable jealousy.

If Dahlia exists somewhere beyond, I know she gazes down at me, not with anger, but pity.

And maybe that’s the worst of all.

It was 9pm on a Thursday, Emilia was in a car on her way to another late-night show interview.

Blood spatter on the counter, a pen knife on the floor, sirens in the distance.

This marked the 5th one she had done in the past month. Tomorrow, she had a morning show and Saturday she had a meeting with a publisher on a book opportunity.

The person behind in her line was dead, the contents of their head now spilt along a neat line in front of her. She vomited in her mouth and swallowed it out of fear for her life.

Since the event Emilia had more money than she knew what to do with. She had quit her job, hired a publicist and financial manager. Life on paper was going very well for Emilia.

Emilia's phone rang. Their immediately came a bark to throw the phone towards the man with the gun. She complied.

Emilia's phone rang, it was her publicist. Calling about a UK morning talk show on Monday. They had already booked her a Sunday night red eye, first class. The opportunity paid well it was $10k booking fee, room-and-board at a 5-star hotel in the middle of downtown London.

The phone call was likely a debt collector, Emilia had come to the bank to cash out the remainder of her savings account to pay rent this month. Emilia had pissed herself in the commotion of everything. The gun shots, the blood, the bits of human skull that littered that dusted her shirt.

The green room had about a dozen deviled eggs for Emilia, a condition in her rider. She liked deviled eggs, her grandma always used to make the best deviled eggs for holidays and family gatherings.

The gunman had bent over to check the pockets of the corpse now in front of Emilia. A pen knife had fallen out of the man's pocket.

She picked up the knife, on the counter and gave the egg a quick poke and right into her mouth.