She is everyone, and no one. She doesn't even have a name, because every day she is in a new life. She doesn't know who she is...or was. All she knows is the pain of these other girls, these living girls, the suffering girls.

She wants to know who she really is...but what will it take to find out?

WARNING: This Movella contains rape, bullying, suicide, abuse, self-harm, and other sensitive elements.


17. Abigail

It’s been a month since I woke up.


    It’s weird being back in my own body. My body, not another girl’s. My life instead of someone else’s. The life that I forgot I had.


    I remember the other girls with startling clarity. I have nightmares every night - Emilie’s rape, Sasha’s death, various memories from the girls that aren’t my own but still stuck with me.

    Sometimes a memory will envelop me in the light of day, pulling me from reality until one of my parents snaps me out of it. They keep asking me, “Abi, honey, where did you go?”, but I can’t bear to answer. I don’t know how to tell them. I would sound crazy.


    Somehow, my life feels brighter than it did when I died. It shouldn’t - my parents broke the news of Sasha’s death shortly after I came home from the hospital.

I didn’t cry because I’d already grieved. I’d felt her die, felt her slip away, felt myself being ejected from her body as it died. I grieved while I was in that blank space between life and death, I grieved and I changed.


    I don’t know why I had the experience I did. I don’t know if it happens to everybody who goes into a coma - surely, if it did, someone would have said something?


    What I do know is that it changed me in so many ways. It opened my eyes, and it helped me to heal, even if it also traumatized me.



One year later


    “Abigail! Are you coming?”

    “Yeah, hang on!”

    I smooth my hands over my soft blue dress and check my reflection one more time before darting down the stairs. My mom is waiting by the door, a bouquet of flowers in her hand: daisies, forget-me-nots, freesias, and mixed zinnias.

    Mom gazes at me for a moment, her gaze gentle and loving. I give a small smile.

    Dad walks out of the kitchen, keys jangling in his hand. “Ready, ladies?”

    I giggle a bit. “Ready, Dad.”


    The ride to the graveyard is full of memories. We weave nostalgic tales with our voices. I share most of these stories, describing the many adventures I had with Sasha and Ella, but my parents have moments to share, too.

    “Remember the peanut butter contest? You girls went through 3 whole jars of that stuff, all trying to make the perfect peanut butter treat!” Mom recalls.

    “And then we couldn’t pick a winner because everything was so yummy!” I laugh.

    We keep tossing memories back and forth even as we’re walking through the rows of gravestones and memorials, until finally we reach a spot that is marked by a small oak tree. Under the tree are two gravestones, small and simple. One is carved with a rose and Sasha’s name, the other with a butterfly and Ella’s name. Mom hands me the bouquet, and I set it down in between the two stones.

    I’m glad that Ella and Sasha’s families let them be buried next to each other.


My parents come up on either side of me, my mom taking my hand and my dad rests a hand on my shoulder. We stand in silence.


    A female hummingbird hovers in front of a small feeder that was recently hung on the oak tree. It’s joined by another hummingbird, also female. The two birds take turns feeding before zipping away together, chasing the light of the sun.

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