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Followed by Death

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I carried the label of “freak” with me to every school I went to. I was at my sixth school, sitting in a corner of the cafeteria while trying to avoid the latest group of bullies when, suddenly, I felt a cold breeze brush past me. “Not again … ” I wished I didn’t hear anything this time. Thankfully, I didn’t. It started six years ago when I was ten. I began to feel presences that weren’t there, and felt as if something was always trying to reach out to me. This happened no matter how many times I switched schools, and each time, the presence I felt was a different one. My mom, being superstitious, made things worse for me by forcing me to wear protective rings and chains that brought too much attention to me. Many classmates made fun of me, saying I was a witch. I sometimes wondered whether they were right. If only I could fully see what was reaching out to me… One morning, I was with my eyes shut while listening to music when, suddenly, I felt that familiar presence brush past me with
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Beginnings in Death

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Reincarnation was a belief that stayed strong in the hearts of many people in my neighbourhood, who often seemed to account several of their past lives in great detail, but having no such memories myself, I found the idea a little difficult to believe. When I was a child, my parents told me it was most likely because this was my first life as a human; that was even more perplexing since I was one of twins. However, my sister, Lily, claimed to retain memories from her previous life. Perhaps there was some truth to it. The townspeople believed that there was one law governing the process: to be reincarnated, at least the last living person who was closest to you must let go of their grief before they die. This law brought upon me nothing but despair on Lily’s and my 30th birthday—Lily passed away in a car accident on her way to our parents’ house. It bored a hole through our entire family. We wished we could move on for Lily’s sake, so that she would have the chance for a better life in
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Death Immortal

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Everyone here is born with a birth tattoo on their wrist foretelling how they will die, but mine just read “Immortality”. This puzzled everyone. In school, some children considered me superhuman, while others thought of me as a freak. Some were even scared, fearing I’d bring about the end of our species. I didn’t know what to believe. Death and Immortality could not be anymore withdrawn from each other, so where did I fit in this paradox? The fear of loss held me back in forming external relationships, and the one person I had feelings for died in a car crash when we were still in our twenties. I eventually lived through the deaths of not just my parents, but also of my older and younger siblings, their children, and even their children. The only respite I had was my studies. It was the only thing I could bury myself in. I learned every language, all types of art, and every field of science. Three and a half centuries into my life, however, a strange phenomenon began to occur: a signif
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Born Between Worlds

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I never felt like I belonged, no matter where I was. I had kind friends, and parents that saw to my every need, so I couldn’t fathom why I felt that way. The feeling never went away, even when I got older. While we were still children, my best friend Leela often said I was strange for feeling the way I did, and that she wouldn’t have even cared if her parents passed away if it meant she could be adopted by my parents. I found her thoughts to be stranger than mine. Once I became an adult, however, I started to notice things. I could see and hear things that others could not. I feared my mental health was deteriorating, but I soon learned that it was not the case. I quickly found out that my abilities extended beyond heightened senses—I could manipulate the world around me. Wanting to figure out the extent of my powers, I decided to infuse it into my work. I had joined a software company after completing my degree and was a month into developing a new social media app. As a side project,
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A Fictional Reality

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I had just finished the latest chapter of my ongoing novel and was getting ready for bed early because I needed to leave the house by 5:00 a.m. to visit my parents for the weekend. It was a four-hour drive out of town to their place, but I made it a point to meet them at least once a month. It was the least I could do since they adopted me when I was just a newborn dropped off at their doorstep with nothing but a sheet wrapped around me. However, things took a strange turn when I was woken up around 2:00 a.m. to the ringing of the doorbell. Looking through the peephole, I was dumbfounded to find a woman carrying a backpack, whose resemblance was eerily similar to the protagonist of my book. She kept a vigilant eye on her surroundings and whispered into the door. “Please let me in. This is an emergency.” Seeing the fear on her face, I unlocked the door and asked the mysterious woman to come inside. She thanked me and rushed to the sofa. I took one more look outside and then locked the d
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The Double-Edged Ideal

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Being a naturally reserved and shy child, I often found myself being bullied by my classmates, but I always followed my mother’s advice and forgave them each time. Being a religious person, she asked that I never fight back against them because I’d be no better than them. My father, however, disagreed. “You’ll only be a carpet for them in the long run,” he said. “If you let them get away with it, they will never stop.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Even though I mostly agreed with Mom’s ideals, I found Dad’s words eventually ringing true. As the years passed by, the bullying only got worse, and those responsible were never punished. I wanted to stay true to my beliefs and be the good person Mom wanted me to be, but at what cost? What was the point in being “good”—whatever that even meant anymore—if it only brought me suffering in return? It was not long before I was the only prey left in the class. I tried getting to know my bullies in a desperate attempt to find something we
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The Closet Friend

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I had a closet friend named Sophia when I was seven. I met her when we moved to a new house in a different town. She looked no older than I was at the time, and she was playing with a teddy bear inside the closet of my new room. The night I met Sophia, I asked if I could join her. She smiled and said yes, and we played until I fell asleep. I woke up the next day and went downstairs to find my parents panicking and on the phone. When they saw me approaching, they rushed to my side and asked me where I was. I said I was in the closet, but they didn’t believe me. My parents said they checked the closet and every other inch of the house and couldn’t find me. I didn’t know what to say other than the fact that I played with my new friend. I could tell at the time that they didn’t believe me. They said it was alright, and that they were just glad I was safe. Mom urged me to not hide anywhere at night and to only sleep in my bed. I agreed, although I didn’t always listen. I was admitted to a n
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