BEING ON THE RUN from your very very annoyed and in all senses, pissed-off sisters is not, in fact, entertaining. At all.

The moment I woke up was the only second of peace I was bestowed upon before being bombarded by memories, migraines, body aches, and skin shedding. Mind you, even Dear Mama Nature was against me because I got my periods.

On wearing white pants.

But, I managed to change them before they decided blush red suited them more than pearl white. Crisis averted.

My day did not start sunny, happy, or 'ooh la la' worthy. There was nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was the girl in front of me. She mimicked my every move. If I blinked, she blinked. If I frowned, she frowned. Her hair was wild, and her eyes were no longer gold but a dull, tired shade of amber. The most noticeable part of her was her body.

Her body was not the most feminine, aside from the somewhat small waist and barely showing swell of her chest. Her face was clean, a little scratched up here and there. A sandy skin tone. But her upper arms, legs, and form? No, the girl was fucked up in them. Her arms were muscular as if she was born after a hardcore workout. And being whipped a billion times.

And yet they had that tantalizing invitation in them. To just be lost in the cold warmth and never swim back.

Maybe that was why she was hugging herself.

Scars. They marked every unseen and some seen part of her body. Some were in gashes, some were splotches and some... well, there were more than some that covered her lower physique. Little red splashes, peaking up from behind her shoulder, inviting her to the nightmare painting on her back.

When I turned to take a glance, she did too.

I'd rather not get into the details of what I saw. But let me tell you, Maki Zenin had it easy when compared to these burns.

The girl looked up at me once again.
I blinked. She blinked.

For the first time, I met a girl in the mirror who looked more like me.

For the first time. I met a girl in the mirror who looked more like me.

But still not me.

·······•✦•······

So I snuck off out of my room again. Sue me.

I was in no shape or state of mind to be dealing with anything right about now. Especially not two angelic existences. Demons don't mingle with angels.

The only time me and my sisters talked after the whole Freak Ball incident, was between sobbing and crying while holding each other in the middle of the night because I woke up after a nightmare.

I had not a clue where my legs took me to this time. My mind couldn't care enough to figure it out. Everything was dots again.

·······•✦•······

I was fifteen again.

I remember being cold. I remember some warmth fading around me. She was pretty, the woman in my arms. She smiled at me, even as she was shivering and shaking. She had a pretty set of eyes. But her face, I remembered. Some parts of it I'd seen before. Where, remained still a mystery.

The woman held my hand. The very hand that held a knife.

Inside of her.

I hadn't meant to do it. She had kept the knife in between my fist, kissed my head, and moved my hand. Herself.

She was my last audience. My last sponsor. Enjoyer.
But the woman was also my mother.

I had one mother.
I killed my one mother.

The lady never let her smile fall. Not even as she dangled just moments before death. The woman kept a cold, gentle hand on my face. How was it still so warm?

She looked at me. Looked at me as if I was made out of the cleanest, clearest of glasses. My soul, a flickering flame trapped within it.

Her lips moved to form a shape.
A shape of a word.

A word with two syllables.

"Arlene."

That wasn't my name.
That was not my name to call. No. It belonged to her. She was Arlene.

So I heard her try again.

"Amira."

That wasn't either. I think I liked my name a lot. Because my eyes wouldn't stop watering. Maybe it hurt me, she wouldn't say it right. Or maybe it hurt me that she wouldn't be able to try again and again soon.

So she said another word. Then another.

"Grambs... live."

She said so many things. So many words.

But this time she got it right.
This time she said...

"Annabelle."

My name was Annabelle. The doll that killed so many. The cursed. The haunted. I was the Deadly Doll in every sense. So she said another word. Then another.

Arlene Amira Grambs. Live. Annabelle.
What an odd thing to say.

She wasn't smiling anymore. Her eyes glossed over. And she went limp. My hands were red. Red so red.

A man. A man was standing in front of me. He looked homeless, really. Drunk. Up to no good. But right now, the person was nothing but sober. He picked me up with some effort. If I wasn't so hysterical, I would've easily snapped the man twice my age's neck in two.

I wonder who was screaming for her to wake up. For her to come back. For her not to leave.

I think it was me.

I think it was me who wanted nothing but to see her smile again. To call me her name again. I liked Arlene better than Annabelle. I think I wanted to kill something.

I think, that day, I almost did.

I almost killed the man watching me from the shadows.
I almost killed L'Imperetore.

I almost killed the Ring Master.

I wanted to kill my father.

·······•✦•······

My legs stilled. My body fell back.
No one to catch me but the spiky, soft grass beneath me.

I was here again. This stupid million-dollar lake pond.

The same ducks. The same green, clear water. The same magnanimous Hawthorne Mansion at the other end. A fever dream-worthy fantasy.

Why did I always find myself here whenever I was in this godforsaken place?

My fingers dance across the bright planted ground before wrapping around an innocent pebble, just existing and minding its own business.

Before sending it flying towards the water, and down the feet deep. Earning some quacks and glares from scared ducks.

I couldn't give a fuck.

Kinda mean, I know. But I was too lost to really do anything about it. The weight of my world was slammed upon me and expected of me to hold it in one hand with ease, while giving out luxury with the other.

However, Crunchy Feet walking behind me seemed to take some of it off.

"I sometimes wonder," I decided to please the ducks by throwing bread crumbs I got from god knows where, instead of rocks, "Do you even sleep under the Hawthorne roof or just camp to and live here all,"

The ducks quacked in approval.
Gold turned to meet the ancient woman.

"Huh, Nan?"

Nan, or better said, Pearl O'Day, Mother of Alice O'Day, In-Law of Tobias Hawthorne, Grandmother of The Four Brothers, and a very creepily pretty looking old woman, sat down beside me.

"Oh hush, rascal," She swatted away an invisible fly. I hoped it was not envisioned as me. "This is the only place ya brats won't bother me with your petty problematic drama!"

"Petty-"

"Damn right, petty!" the ancient woman smacked my head, eliciting a yelp from me, "I take my eyes off of you for what one week and boom! You get yourself shot, poisoned, attacked, and whatnot!"

Usually, I would find this type of behavior anything but endearing. Annoying, rude, and obnoxious? Totally. Endearing? That was new. Then again, usually I wasn't so depressed about being someone else.

Nan caught onto my lack of comebacks or arguing. She watched like a hawk, drinking in my slumped shoulders, and drooped eyelids. Dark circles, different physique. Everything. Even I could tell she could read me like an open book.

The sound of water rippling, wind blowing through the crispy leaves, and distant calls of animals filled in the silence.

The sun had barely gone past noon and yet the lazy ball of gas cuddled up behind a fluffy blanket of clouds.

The earth was grounding to the point I was shackled by gravity, my eyes fighting a war to stay awake. Even with my supposed 'super healing', it was still just healing; not regeneration or instantaneous. Every medical personnel would be banging their heads in frustration with me. I know Oren and my nurse already are.

My body felt a thousand times more sensitive. So when the wrinkly, ethereal-looking old hag wrapped her arms around me, tucking my head under her chin, rubbing my back; I could've sworn my soul just bungee jumped out of my body, defying that very shackling gravity.

"Sarina." She whispered. "Oh, you sweet girl."

Here we go again. Taking me for someone I'm not.
"Sorry to disappoint, Granny," My hands tried to push away. "But I'm not-"

"Oh don't flatter yourself," the woman had the audacity her grandsons inherited instead of the fortune that I 'snatched' away, "Of course you are not her yet."

Yet?

"That sweet girl thought ahead so much." The old lady was in her own little bubble, spilling words as if I wasn't in the very awkward position of having my cheeks mushed into her bosoms.

"It's such a shame. She met an end too soon." Nan said to the clouds; two long-time friends sharing a somber secret. "Too soon for her. Too soon for us."

My tongue was curled up, ready to call a protest, to demand the lady unhand me. Instead, it chose to calm, flatten, and swallow, before choosing words far more careful.

"What..." I let the word hold the peace for a moment before letting it drop, "What happened to her?"

The sun was a lazy, sleepy thing. It covered behind the thickening sheets of white. The cottony blanket of clouds started to morph into a color I found myself endearing and oddly comforted to.

Grey.

But the weather, albeit giving an anomaly of peace, matched the gloom etched so evidently all over Pearl O'Day's face.

"We lost her. To the flames."

Oh.

Oh. Okay, that just got a little too morbid. Maybe it was my interpretation of those six words or the grimace on her lips, but all I could picture was death.

Slow.
Painful.
Scorching death.

"I..." I what? What am I supposed to say to that? Is a simple 'I'm sorry' supposed to be enough to fill the pit in my chest?

I didn't think so. So, I decided to do the thing that anyone would rather not do.

Press on.

"How..." How do I say this? "How old was she?"

She said something.

I'll say something before. I've been having this revelation of sorts.

When I hadn't known who I was before Arlene, when I hadn't known of my birth as Annabelle or La Bambolla Mortale at nine, I had this terrifying feeling.

My time being dead (for those who care, I meant by 'dead', passed out for over two days or so) was filled with a lot of non-conscious contemplating.

Those weird flashbacks.
That weird deja vu when I walked around the house.
The way Jameson called me Rina.

If I already was someone more than Arlene. Could I be...

"August 23rd, 2014. Sarina Salva died at the age of nine."

Oh.

Well damn. This week had been enlightening.

Not only did I realize, at that moment, that if Sarina was alive she would have been my age...

But also...

She died.
On my birthday.

·······•✦•······

My hopes-less-suspicion of having another hidden fairytale of a life with a rich billionaire, four hot dudes, and some old hags, went about just as much tumbling downhill as the rabbit chasing butterflies in the distance.

So, there goes that theory.

The 'I'm so sorry' card didn't do much to ease the tension in the air.

Thankfully my phone rang.

Oren.

For the hundredth time that day, like an absolute idiot, I pressed my thumb on that little red circle.

In all honesty, I should have been doing anything but ghost my family. And I knew that. But I didn't know how not to.

How would I explain to Avery and Libby that their sister is, in fact, not their sister at all. Not even half.

How do I explain to them that the person they chose to reward with their trust and love is actually a bloodthirsty, man-murdering psychopath who hasn't killed a person.

But did something so so much worse.

Where do I even begin with my whole other life? With the stage? The Clown? The Ring Master?

"They're worried for you." The O'Day woman answered my inner prayers and let some space slip in between us.

"I know." I replied to the sky.

"Girl." I turned to the old woman, tilting my head. Tired eyes blinked in question.

Nan held my gaze for a moment more than necessary before reaching for the hidden pocket in her gown. Moments later her hand was open in front of me.

And on the palm of that hand was a book. The soft leather cover was adorned with little charms, cork stickers, and a litter of scratches and worn-out edges.

On the top center of the object was a cloud-shaped, piece of paper, messily taped and rimmed with sketched stitches.

Written in a wobbly, messy handwriting that I had no doubt was a child's:

Sarina's Diary

My eyelids opened and then closed.
Then opened again.

"This is-"

"Yours."

There was something about the way she looked at me when she said that word.

'Yours' as in not 'yours to own now', but more like, 'yours to have always owned.'

At that moment I came to a conclusion. Hawthornes in general are confusing as hell.

Deciding not to argue with the gorgeous Granny, my fingers wrapped around the article.

I had this nagging feeling that I was losing my manners. That I should have been declining and politely pushing the book away. That it wasn't my place or right to be snooping around a passed girl's personal belongings.

But curiosity killed the Arlene.

The paper edge was mostly clean and crispy to the touch. My fingers hooked under barely a page, ready to flip it and unveil just who this Salva girl could have been.

Nan's hand caught my wrist just before it could happen.

"Take it to there." The woman looked at me. Pearl O'Day looked at my existence. Mapping the linings of my soul, choosing me as a painting made with utmost mastery of imperfection. Wondering out loud without words whether I was worthy or not.

Deciding maybe I was.

"Take it to the place you first learned her name. Maybe then you'll begin to understand what really is the game."

·······•✦•······

Just a fun fact about me: I do not like old women who give out jumpscares, children's diaries, and riddles like candy or choco-mint cookies.

I do not like them.
But I do listen to them.

...sometimes.

I found myself feeling that dear old friend deja vu again.
I found myself in front of the shrine-cum-temple of Sarina Elizabeth Salva again.

Untouched was a way to describe it.

The twelve shelves filled with golden gratuities, projects, and art pieces were spotless. If I could be careless with Forty Six point Two Billion dollars, I would give half of it all to anyone who could find a single spec of dust anywhere near the display.

Untouched in the sense of newly made.

My feet carry me forward two steps before my hand reaches out to a familiar box. 'My Past to You', Sarina Elizabeth Salva, 07-18-2010.

I held it up

A rich wooden box, hexagonal in shape, adorned with the most delicate and intricate carvings, in which gold was filled. The box was still about as tall as my thumb to my wrist and a little smaller than my hand. The symbols, gears, and little buttons all over it.

Symbols, gears, and little buttons that my fingers moved against with almost practiced ease. I couldn't help but push the why away into a far corner of my infinitely round mind.

I was stuck. So I backpedaled. 
It opened as it had.

And I did not look in. Instead, I had an earth-shattering enlightenment that maybe I should read the manual before trying to assemble a Japanese Turbo Baby stroller.

I wouldn't want to end up like Scooter Buskie's parents.

Finding the single most expensive armchair on wheels known to the American Economy—which Tobias Hawthorne would call his work chair, I spun around with the book in my hand.

Why was I hesitating? Dragging out each and every second to the most possible extent?

Well, firstly, I believe it would have been the normal reaction of every person who had little morals left to be unsure of diving into the secrets, maybe crushes and more of a dead child, who is also worshipped by a billionaire family for reasons unknown.

And not a single picture of her around.

The cover creeps up over my fingers, seducing the digits to flip it over and glide along the first page. Soft, a little singed and yellow, but relatively well kept. Aside from one thing.

Onto my second very reasonable and logical explanation for reluctance:

The book was drenched in blood.

·······•✦•······

Either the Hawthornes owned an animal blood bank that might have looked (or been) human and just decided to embrace their bored, too-rich-for-an-ice-cream-and-need-psycho-behavior-to-satisfy-life's-cravings urges.

Or they ran out of money to buy red paint.

Or, there had been some serious shit going down these twenty-seven (approx.) halls. Does a burning child genius godling fall into that category? Probably.

The first page, stained red to the point it became hard to read—not impossible, yet, started with the word...

Help.

·······•✦•······

Help.

Adorned with a laughing emoji sticker and lots of doodled exclamation marks. 

Who's heartbeat skyrocketed to the nearest next galaxy and crash-landed back to Earth? Not mine.

The red-stained paper was not helping this wholesome entry.

Help. 
I learned how to write faster than Raven! He looks mad! 

Raven?

But I saw him smiling too. I'm confused. Anyways, I'm five now! Well, officially two hours ago. Today's my birthday! We had this HUGE party, with ponies, disco balls and even a Santa Claus!  Though it was weird, this Santa didn't come at Christmas. He didn't bring gifts and he had a very intense brooding face.

"Evil Santa attended your party?" I said to nothing around. There was a rough sketch, wobbly and scratchy but understandable. This Santa had his beard black. A scar ran across his cartoonishly mean-looking face and the infamous Christmas hat was scrunched up in his hand. 

That aside, another something weird happened. Aunty Zara and Skye were looking at me weirdly. I heard them say to Mama that I'm not supposed to be talking so much. That it's weird that me and Raven can write and talk as well as Nashy can.

Nashy is eleven...

Well, dang. I blink as I read that again. Nash was eleven, making him six years older than Sarina. Who was five. Born in 2005. And she and this 'Raven' could talk as well as Nash could. 

I don't think they're wrong. Jamie still messes up some sentences and eats up words like he's hungry. It's cute. Speaking of cute things, I got a crochet kit and I made Xander