The Wake of Illusions

I wore my new blood-maroon gown, adorned myself with gold jewelry, pressed my hair, and lined my lips in a bold red that brought warmth to my olive skin. The lace of the gown reminded me of another time—eight lifetimes ago, perhaps—its delicate designs meant for an altar of innocence.

My arrival at the venue was expected. The owner led me to my seat and poured me a glass of Petra Zingari Toscana as he updated me on his family and the restaurant. He noticed my glances toward the window and quietly excused himself to the kitchen as I whispered, "Grazie."

He was late. I sipped the wine slowly, savoring the richness that lingered on my tongue, earthy and smooth with a hint of berries. The taste seemed to have pulled a memory from my past, one of which I had buried—the first time he brought me here and ordered me this wine. Strange how a taste can pull a chill from the past when uncertainty already hangs in the air, foreshadowing the inevitable.

Outside, the city lights glimmered through the fog gathering on the window. A familiar face appeared, and I stood to greet him. He embraced me with a quick, but warm, one armed hug, kissed my temple and removed his coat. Apologizing for his lateness, he launched into an explanation, but my mind drifted as he spoke.

It was a beautiful night, and I took in every detail: the crinkle around his eyes when he smiled, the rosy blush of his cheeks, and the varied colors of his brunette hair. His squinting smile was seared into my memory. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, so when he drew a small box from his jacket and opened it, revealing a delicate white-gold necklace with an opal pendant, I felt a surge of surprise. He insisted I wear it immediately, smiling with pride as he fastened it around my neck. I felt a chill as he clasped it, a counterfeit warmth around my throat. Did he know?

I turned, but his face held only admiration. Gratitude and anxiety can’t coexist, so I quickly thanked him, drowning him in words of appreciation.

The drive home felt long, “Cigarette Daydreams” filling the silence as I parked. Inside, I placed all my valuables where they belonged but tucked the necklace into an inconspicuous drawer of my dresser. My hand lingered on the porcelain handle. A timeless piece, perhaps, but one more wear would surely dissolve the sliver of authenticity it had. Better to savor it as it is.

It’s been 41 days of passing that drawer and feeling my thoughts unravel there, where I seem to lose myself a little more each time. I haven’t been sleeping, but exhaustion finally won out, and I fell into a deep, vivid dream.

I awoke to snow brushing my face. My attire was heavy—chains clinked as I rose, armor pressing against me. I stood slowly, my sword unsheathed in my hand, smeared with blood. My lips were cracked and cold, my hands calloused, and my gown lay torn beneath the weight of my iron shell.

I scanned the field, seeing only one man in the distance, unfamiliar but with a warm face. Snow had been falling for days—but how long had I lain here on this battlefield?

“Sir, to whom did I claim victory?” I asked.

“What war were you fighting?” he replied.

I didn’t understand, but he motioned for me to walk beside him. We approached a large, flat rock bearing a charred crater in the center, blood-stained. There lay the familiar opal necklace, no longer counterfeit but shattered and destroyed.

I looked at him, feeling a wave of nausea. “What did I do?”

He replied, “What was necessary.”

I felt sick. I removed my breastplate, shedding layer after layer. I didn’t care anymore; there was nothing left to protect. I glanced at the stranger one last time and walked away without a word.

I came upon a tavern and stepped inside, the warmth jarring my senses as tension melted from my body. It was empty, no staff, no guests, but I didn’t need anyone. I was only looking for an opportunity to evaluate my condition in private.

Finding a washroom, I ran hot water over my hands, watching the grime of battle fade. Drying my hands, I looked up, catching my reflection and felt panic rise. There were mirrors excessively hung on every wall, forcing me to view myself from every angle.

My gown was whole again, my hair perfectly in place, lipstick bold, yet a blackened, blood-streaked opal pendant hung at my throat, broken and angry against my skin. I blinked, and suddenly I awoke in my bed, staring at the dresser that held the haunting piece of evidence. I ran to open the drawer, finding it empty, which brought both relief and sadness.

It was gone; it was counterfeit anyway.

What was once fog was now a luscious winter, with snow covering the ground in a six-inch thick fashion. I only had to walk a block through an old part of the city, but stopped at the recognition of the green paint framing a familiar window; this time with me looking into the restaurant, I felt my nineth life end when the nostalgia took over me. I looked up at the sky as if to beg, but instead cleared the end of the block. I walked into a bookstore and recognized a man who I knew many moons ago; a friend, a remnance of a simplier time in my life. When he turned to greet me, a decade's worth of dissonance between us, I felt my tenth life begin.