Rising From The Ashes Of Betrayal

Kala gasped, her body jerking upright as air flooded her lungs. It was a violent, desperate intake of breath, like a diver breaking the surface after drowning.

She clawed at her throat, expecting the sear of smoke, the taste of ash. But the air was cool. It smelled of lavender and expensive fabric softener.

Her hands flew to her left leg. She braced herself for the agony of crushed bone, for the weight of the oak beam.

Nothing.

Her skin was smooth. Her muscles were intact. There was no blood. No char.

Kala sat frozen, her chest heaving, sweat drenching her silk pajamas. She looked around the room. The sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains-the ones that had burned. The chandelier hung securely from the ceiling, catching the morning light in a thousand tiny rainbows.

It was silent. No roaring fire. No screaming sirens. Just the hum of the central air conditioning.

Her trembling hand reached for the nightstand. She grabbed her iPhone, her fingers slipping on the glass screen. She tapped it awake.

The date stared back at her.

September 14th.

Five years ago.

The phone slipped from her hand and landed on the plush duvet. Kala stared at her palms. They were shaking uncontrollably. This was the second week after she had been brought back from the foster system. The week she had decided to dye her hair blonde to look more like Karly. The week she had started wearing that ridiculous pink lipstick Arthur said made her look "presentable."

She scrambled out of bed and ran to the en-suite bathroom.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger. Her face was caked in yesterday's makeup-smudged eyeliner, clumpy mascara, foundation that was two shades too light. It was a mask. A desperate, pathetic attempt to fit into a mold that was never designed for her.

Memories assaulted her. The fire. Arthur's cold eyes. Karly's smile. The door slamming shut.

Kala gripped the edges of the porcelain sink until her knuckles turned white. The ceramic was cold, grounding her in this impossible reality.

She wasn't dead. She was back.

A low, humorless laugh escaped her throat. It sounded rusty.

"Okay," she whispered to her reflection. "Okay."

She turned on the faucet. The water ran cold. She splashed it onto her face, scrubbing aggressively. She dug her nails into her skin, clawing away the foundation, the eyeliner, the desperation. She wanted it off. All of it.

She grabbed a rough towel and wiped her face dry. When she looked back at the mirror, the stranger was gone.

Staring back was Kala. Her skin was pale, her eyes dark and hollow, devoid of the pleading warmth that used to reside there. The need to please was gone, burned away in a fire that hadn't happened yet.

"Kala is dead," she said to the reflection. Her voice was steady. "I am what's left."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The bedroom door shook on its hinges.

"Kala!" Archer's voice boomed from the hallway. "What are you doing in there? Dying?"

Kala's body flinched. It was a somatic reflex, a muscle memory of fear ingrained over years of abuse. Her heart hammered against her ribs. But then, she remembered.

Archer was the one who carried Karly. Archer was the one who stepped over her dying body.

The fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, quiet void.

"We're all waiting!" Archer yelled again. "Do you think you're special? Get out here!"

Kala lowered the towel. She didn't rush. She didn't panic. She walked back into the bedroom and calmly put on her silk robe. She tied the sash slowly, ensuring the knot was perfect.

She walked to the door. She placed her hand on the brass knob. It felt heavy, solid.

She yanked the door open.

Archer's fist was raised, ready to pound on the wood again. He stumbled slightly at the sudden lack of resistance. He was red-faced, his mouth open, ready to launch into a tirade about her laziness, her ingratitude, her existence.

He looked down at her, expecting to see the cowering girl who apologized for taking up space.

Instead, Kala looked up. Her chin was lifted. Her eyes locked onto his. There was no flicker of intimidation. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.

Archer paused. His arm lowered slowly. The words died in his throat.

"What?" Kala asked. One word. Flat. Monotone.

Archer blinked. "I... Dad is waiting. Downstairs."

"I heard you the first time," Kala said. "You were screaming."

Archer took a step back. He looked confused, like a dog that had barked at a rabbit and the rabbit had barked back. "What is wrong with you? Your attitude..."

"My attitude?" Kala tilted her head. "Is there a problem?"

"You know there is," Archer sputtered, trying to regain his dominance. "Yesterday. The vase. You have to explain yourself."

Ah. The vase. The Ming Dynasty vase Karly had knocked over while trying to frame Kala for being "clumsy."

Kala's lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile. It was a baring of teeth.

"Right," she said. "The vase. Let's go discuss the vase."

She stepped past him into the hallway. She didn't shrink away from his physical presence. She walked down the center of the corridor, forcing him to pivot to watch her.

She reached the top of the grand staircase and looked down.

They were all there. The cast of her nightmare.

Arthur sat in his leather armchair, looking like a king on a throne. Doloris was on the sofa, clutching Karly's hand. Karly was dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, looking fragile and tragic. Only Antoine was missing, already dispatched to Zurich to handle the preliminary stages of a merger that would, in another life, nearly ruin them.

Kala gripped the banister. The wood was smooth under her palm.

She took the first step down.