Supernatural thriller | Rising fashion influencer Rhea is gearing up for her runway debut, but her perfect world is upended when she finds herself haunted by a ghostly doppelganger.
*****
Twenty-four-year-old Rhea Patel has it all-the career in fash...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Springtime at Mom's house reminded me of my childhood. The garden flowers bloomed full and bright. The grapefruits were abundant and slowly developing their deep red color of their deliciously juicy flesh. And best of all, the butterflies they attracted always welcomed me home.
Even my old bedroom felt like the best times of my upbringing. The times where mom and dad were happy together, and loneliness hadn't yet overtaken me. Even as blissful childhood memories flooded me, I refused to stay in that room by myself for too long.
I no longer found comfort in being by myself or locking myself up behind a closed door in utter isolation. Nolan had often used the excuse of protecting me to justify keeping me away from other or getting too close to people, and I had willingly obliged, believing he knew best.
Not anymore.
The old, worn four-seater sofa in the family room called to me and that's what I had made my sanctuary for the last few weeks. I wanted to be in there when Mom walked past to tend to her garden. I wanted to be outside with her in the fresh air and enjoy the warm sunshine. Being present while she cooked my favorite traditional East Asia dishes meant more to me than it did to her. I missed her cooking and took delight in the aroma of the spices and herbs absorbing into the fabric of my clothes, instead of the latest designer fragrance.
Now when I look in the mirror, I'm not adjusting my false lashes or reapplying lip stain. I'm admiring my strength to get up and look at myself, unaltered by a splash of water to the glass.
Instead of fawning over a glass trophy with my name etched into it, I admire the scar it left on my temple and the uneven eyelid that resulted from it. As those flaws marked the strength, I had to survive something I never thought I would.
I would look back at the professional photos I've taken and the symmetrical features that got me to where I was professionally, but admire the brave, capable, determined woman within that assured I would make it to where I am today.
She was the true beauty, the genuine hero of the story. She deserved so much more credit than I had ever given her. And from now on, I vowed to never question her decisions because she proved her intentions were to keep me safe and sane.
If anyone truly deserved an award, it would be her. And not for her beauty, influence, or identity, but purely for her heroism.
There had been many nights where I met my reflection and confronted the physical trauma that took the form of various versions of me. Like a stack of dominos, each beautiful yet battered spectral figure stood one before the other, mimicking me as I stared wide-eyed at the countless wound alterations.
Nothing, not even the image of a sickly pale Nolan and the leaking black goop that oozed from his eyes, would keep me from my reflection. There were times I imagined his torn forearms reaching through the glass to grasp me, but the fear quickly left my system when I realized he no longer held power over me, and any of his appearances might as well be nothing other than a figment of my fractured imagination. Even if they weren't my mind playing tricks on me, seeing him struggle to get my attention empowered me to smile even brighter.
Like being pushed into the lockers by the bully in high school, I may rehash that painful experience now and then, but ultimately, I smile at how far I've come and how much I learned. And no matter how much I tried to analyze the psychology behind any of our actions, I was no Carl Jung, and settled on one fact—
The experience had pried my eyes wide open.
While sitting on the sofa, laptop on my lap, Mom entered from the hall. She tucked a few of her grey hairs into the fiery red messy bun on the back of her head. "Gonna pick some herbs for dinner. Wanna join?"
Before I could answer, she came around the back of the sofa and wrapped me in a comforting hug. No matter how many times she enveloped me in her arms, I savored each one. Wanting to feel her nurturing warmth was part of what drove me to get up off those cold, white tiles and get back home.
Only after she broke the embrace did I answer, "I'll be right behind you." I kept the smile as she exited the sliding glass door and disappeared into the backyard amongst the kaleidoscope of black and yellow butterflies.
I searched through the dozens of unread emails, ignoring most of the headlines about Joselyn Murphy being arrested after trying to flee to California. I trashed all the mail offering compensation for an exclusive interview about my ordeal and noted all the fan mail instead. But out of dozens of emails, the one that stood out amongst them came from SSL. The subject line read: New Opportunity with Salty Saddle Leggings.
Out of curiosity, I opened the email. It didn't surprise me to see they were offering a new contract to continue as their spokesperson, but this time for their new athletic leggings they were calling, "Survivor runners." The tone of the email was nothing short of opportunistic.
I added it to the growing trash folder and opened an email from a longtime fan to prevent my blood from boiling.
The message contained a color pencil drawing of me surrounded by flowers imbedded in the body email. The look on my face was content, the red hair draped my shoulders like a warm blanket, and the smile on my face was infectious.
