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This wasn't supposed to be happening.

This cannot be happening right now.

Maybe I'm… dreaming?

Yes, that's right, I'm just having a nightmare.

It's a nightmare.

Just a nightmare….

But it wasn't just a nightmare. It was far too real to be a nightmare. The dim room, the creaky oak wood floor, the small gray woven rug, and the nearly empty washbin in the corner. It was all too perfectly accurate.

Even the familiar woman, on her deathbed, looked just like my birth mother.

This couldn't be my mother.

She had the same long, ash blonde hair. The same steel-blue eyes. The same pasty skin. The same eyes of someone who had been broken and it drove them to madness. None of my nightmares were ever able to replicate such eyes.

I would never be able to forget those eyes.

This didn't make any sense.

I was supposed to be happy now, I was supposed to live my last life happy.

So why the hell was I transported back to when I was 12, in my first life, to witness the death of my first birth mother, to the exact hour and minute my life went to hell?

Ah hell, naw.

This was so not the f*cking deal.