ODETTE
Little things intrigue me. I always feel excited by things most people would consider petty. That's why I stand before this elegant painting, staring intently as though, in this moment, it's the only thing I see.
It's a painting of a woman who was allegedly the wife of the strongest Vampire king to ever live. Nobody believes it, though. My classmates walk past me, whispering about how ridiculous it is that anyone would believe vampires or any creature remotely close ever existed.
I wouldn't say I believe it either. Still, I wouldn't erase the possibility of such a tale. I've always been obsessed with things that stretch beyond the limits of the human mind.
My fingers reach for the painting, tracing each line of the woman's face. Brown eyes stare back at me, afro hair sitting on her head like a crown, adored with flowers and pins that looked so elegant. Full dark lips that look like they've been tended with layers of shea butter.
I'm especially drawn to the painting because of our similarities. It's not every day you see a beautiful painting of a Black woman hanging in a gallery alongside works of value.
"Odette! I believe you've seen enough. Shall we move on?"
Ms. Freda's haughty voice cuts through my reverie, dragging me back to the noisy gallery, filled with whispers from students like myself.
I give her a small smile. "Certainly, ma'am."
Odette is my name. Odette Marsai. My mother loved the name because it sounded poetic, and so she gave it to me. Since her death, my name is a constant reminder that she once existed.
I drag my feet reluctantly, only moving when I catch Ms. Freda's gaze again—sharp and warning. I steal one last glance at the painting, wishing the artist had written the woman's name somewhere. At least then I could remember her for a long time.
"Sometimes, I think that woman hates me," I whisper to my friend José as I join him at the entrance.
José startles at my presence, his eyes widening. "Did you have to sneak up on me like that, Odette ?"
I grin and loop my arm through his. "Sorry, José."
His frown melts into a smile. José never stays mad at me for long. He's my only friend here at Kent College of Arts. We met at orientation four months ago, and we've been inseparable ever since.
It's crazy how we actually became friends. On our first day, we were both fighting for a front-row seat, and I ended up kicking him in the balls because he accidentally touched my butt. A disaster, truly—but somehow, it worked. We've stuck together like glue ever since.
"Ms. Freda doesn't hate you. She's just weirded out by how fascinated you are with a painting of a mythical person, while every other student is gushing over portraits of historical figures like Aristotle," José says as Ms. Freda announces our departure.
I scoff. "Could've fooled me."
"Stop trying to make the woman a villain. Not everyone's a wicked stepmother. You are not Cinderella."
I stick my tongue out at him. "What does Cinderella have to do with my obvious concern for my wellbeing?"
"Are you asking me? I'm not the one living in a Disney-inspired world!" he laughs at his own joke.
I give him a pointed look. Sometimes his words don't make sense, but I'm stuck with him and his dry jokes for God knows how long.
José sees my look and shakes his head. "I should stop talking," he mutters.
I nod with more enthusiasm than necessary. "You should."
Soon we're back in transit, seated on the bus heading back to school. José and I take our usual window seats, as always, one space empty between us, I find my thoughts drifting back to the painting. My gaze follows the sky through the glass, pale clouds dragging slowly across the blue.
There was something unique about that painting. Something almost... mystical. I am still in my thoughts when someone taps me. "Can I sit?" The voice requests.
I startle, jerking my knee and hitting it in the process. A guy stands before me. Ethereal if you asked me. His long black hair is wrapped in a bun on his head, and he looks at me with the dreamiest golden eyeballs that reminds me of a fading sunset.
He smiles. "Can I sit?" He repeats.
"Of course, sure..." I stammer.
"Thank you."
Suddenly, the bus jerks out of nowhere. Someone shouts. Tires screech. My heart leaps into my throat. What is happening?
Then—bam, everything crashes at once.
The bus hits something and flings sideways. I slam into the window. Screams everywhere. Glass breaks. Someone's crying. Someone else is yelling. I can't think. I can't breathe.
We tip.
Bodies fly. I see someone hit the roof—no, the side. Blood splatters the aisle. I think I hear José call my name. Or maybe I imagine it.
Smoke creeps in.
I cough. My head's spinning. My ears are ringing so loud, it's like I'm underwater. I try to sit up, but I can't move.
I look around—heavens.
They're not moving. We're dying, or if I were being more honest—we are all dead. My stomach twists. My vision blurs. I feel like I'm falling, even though I'm not.
The last thing I see, are the strange boy's golden eyes, still smiling at me.
And just like that, the world stops, and our lives with it.
---
I have read tons of books that depict what happens when one dies. I have watched movies that seemingly speak about how death takes a hold of a person. Nothing prepares me though, for my own experience.
There's light—sharp and blinding as I force my eyes open. For a moment I see nothing, until my sight seemingly adjusts to its environs.
It's raining. That's the first thing I sense. The continuous patter of raindrops on the roof, and the soft splashes against the window is enough evidence.
Pause. Rewind.
The roof? The window?
I sit up instantly, a sharp pain coursing through my head at the impact.
"My Lady!" A soft voice exclaims. "You are awake!"
The voice yanks me further into consciousness. It is strange, not familiar at all. I blink rapidly, my brain seemingly getting accustomed to whatever this is. It is not getting accustomed at all.
The ceiling above me is high, carved with spirals. Stone, not the familiar plaster of our dorm rooms.
Am I in heaven? I admit that I did a lot of good things when I was alive, but I don't think I deserve to be in heaven.
"My Lady?" The voice comes again, this time more sharply, with an undertone of panic.
My gaze sweeps around the room. I take note of a candlelight sitting on a white mahogany table. The candlelight sways, and I finally notice who is speaking to me.
The girl with the voice stands by the bed, dressed in a blush pink dress that reaches to the floor, and on it is an apron. Her hair is white, packed up in a ponytail, and her amber eyes blink at me with a mixture of relief and perhaps concern.
Okay, something is wrong.
I look around again. The bed I'm sitting on is wide and high, like those I see in historical movies. The bedspread is pure white, and the pillows are a mix of green and pink linen. I look down and realize I'm dressed in what could only be a pink silk nightgown.
That's when I notice it. There's a difference.
I look back at the girl, panic beginning to rise. This is certainly not heaven—or hell.
"Where am I?"
"Oh, my lady. Don't you remember? I knew the impact was bad. Oh, fates, what do I do now?" The girl panics, her eyes starting to shimmer with tears.
My head aches with confusion. I don't know what is going on. I try to stand, but the silk gown tangled at my leg and I nearly fall back onto the bed.
The girl rushes forward, holding me steady. "Please do not strain yourself, my lady. Let me go get the healer."
The healer?
My head is starting to spin again, and then I make the mistake of glancing at the mirror just across the room, and I think my heart drops.
That is not me, but the girl looks familiar.
I walk towards the mirror gingerly, as if my careful steps would rid the image looming towards me.
Wrong.
I stumble back just as soon as I get close enough to see clearly.
That is not me, but yet I know who she is.
The girl in the mirror has my skin, yes. But it's brighter somehow, like bronze dipped in moonlight. Her hair is the same texture, but curlier, shinier, twisted into an intricate crown of plaits. Her cheekbones are sharper, regal. Her neck—long and graceful, like a swan's. The nightgown clings to her body in a way that feels... expensive. Foreign.
I blink again. Something clicks into place. The face staring at me from the mirror is just as I remember it from the painting. Except this face is alive, breathing. And this face is me.
I raise my hands to my face.
The mirror girl copies me.
This is a dream. This has to be a dream!
"Who am I?" My voice comes out barely a whisper.
The girl at the foot of the bed looks at me from behind, pity clouding her visage. I can see from the mirror. "My lady," she says gently.
"Tell me," I say, much louder this time.
"You... You are Lady Odette of the House of Mourvain. First daughter of Warlock Lord Marsai. You've been ill since the accident at Hollow Fall. The council feared you might not wake up."
Hollow Fall? Lady Odette ? Lord Marsai? Warlock!
I peer at the mirror, staring at the face that isn't mine.
My name is Odette Marsai. I'm just a student who died. My mother left me a name, not a title.
This is not real. But the smooth silk on my skin, the scent of burning lavender in the air, the ache in my bones—everything feels real. Too real.
"I think I'm going to be sick," I whisper.
The girl reaches for me. "Please, my lady, let me get the healer for you..."
Her words are starting to fade, and then I'm falling over. And everything is dark—once again.