I have lived my entire life behind white walls and hospital gowns. I don’t have any memory of being elsewhere besides this hospital. Not complaining, though. If this is the only way I can live and see my family, then so be it.

My dad was a politician. I know most politician are snakes and what not, all the nurses seem to say that to me indirectly. It’s as if they’re trying to tell the money for my treatment is stolen. And while he may be someone bad in the eyes of the people, he’s still a good father.

He’d visit me every day without fail, bring me something new to add to my room and tell me about his day. If he could help it, I’m sure my dad would stay with me from sunup till sundown and we’d talk all day long. But he can’t, so I’m left to entertain myself.

Unsurprisingly, I was deeply in love with fantasy stories. Whether they be novels, web comics, TV dramas, I would devour anything with a hint of magic. Laugh all you want for my typical coping method, but YOU’RE no different. (You, the readers: side-eye and nervous laughter)

And out of all the amazing stories I devoured, A Golden Crow was my favourite. Never had I read something that weaved politics, schemes, romance in such an enchanting way. I was left mesmerised the first time I finished it and wholly smitten the second.

It was so good that I, a sickly fifteen-year-old girl, was moved to write my novel. Admittedly, it wasn’t very different from A Golden Crow. In fact, it was nearly a carbon copy, with the main character being someone who I projected myself on to. It took me roughly a year to finish it and when I was done; I was so elated the doctors thought my body recovered.

“Papa,” I called to the portly man who sat next to me, trying to knit a scarf. He was god-awful at it, but my mom’s been teaching him for the funsies. “I finished the book I was writing.”

He stopped short and looked at me with a funny face. “You finished writing that book? Already?”

Giggling, I said, “What do you mean already? It’s been a year!”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he turned towards my mother, who was sitting on the armchair looking just as surprised. She smiled, “Can’t say I’m shocked. Seeing as you're the child of two incredibly efficient people, of course, you would prevail even in your tough situations.”

Mimicking my mother’s smile, my dad asked, “Can I read it?”

Before I could give a response, my little brother jumped on to my bed and said, “I want your pudding.” My mother quickly picked him up and quietly chastised him.

“Obviously,” I started, answering my dad’s question. “Why else would I tell you?”

I opened the doc and showed it to my parents. Clearing his throat, he started to read it out loud, horrifying me. “An Angel’s Cry by Carmilla Navarro.”

Quickly I stamped my hands against his mouth, “Don’t read it out loud! It’s embarrassing.”

“Mfm how muil mu mfmor meer mit?” I removed my hands and wiped them. Ew. “Then how will your mother read it?”

“Read it one at a time.”

That night, my dad went home later than usual. Even though I told him I would mail the document to him, he wouldn’t listen. He had something to say about almost every character introduced, like a living comment section. Something about made me extremely happy.

When he came the next day, he almost immediately sat on the armchair and began reading. My mother and little brother couldn’t join us that day. Apparently, Juno was having exams and wouldn’t study at all at the hospital.

As the sun went down, and its rosy hues lit my room warm, I felt really down. Maybe writing this book was more exhausting than I thought. My arms were easily tired and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the window. I sensed it was important to see the sun.

“…is very annoying. If it were me, I would never give him the time of the day…” My dad kept going about something in the story, but I couldn’t care less. I need to see the sun one more time. I don’t want it to set yet.

Steadily, I got up and removed the blanket. “Carmilla?” My dad questioned me. He sounded concerned, but I’m not sure why. I’m just getting up to see the sunset.

I almost tripped over the stupid tubes, but I quickly removed them—they were getting in the way of seeing the sunset. My dad said something about me. He sounded really worried. Seriously, dad, I’m just moving closer to the window.

Something really hurt and I could feel my tears burn as they fell. Like embers of a fireplace against the skin. My knees ached as I tried to crawl closer and vision blurred. No. I can’t see the sun if I cry.

“Dad?” I mumbled as I felt arms envelop me. There was so much noise. So many people. Nurse Maria and Jacob. Even Doctor Enid was there. Why?

I don’t know. I don’t know. Everything hurts.

I want to read under the sun. I want to play with my brother in the park. There is so much I want to do. But right now, please, let me just watch this sunset.

Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

A bird chirped as the morning glow forced my eyes to open. I sat up straight, stretching my arms; my back cracked. As I blinked the view clear and covered my yawn, a slow and tender realisation started to appear.

This room isn’t white.

This blanket is brown with flowers, not the teal one my mother gifted me. My hands looked pasty and ample. They were supposed to be a light brown shade and bony.

I jumped off the bed and stood in front of the nearby mirror. Where am I? I wondered as I made my way to the mirror.

“What?” I gasped.

Staring back at me from the mirror was a redheaded girl with frightening black eyes.

Who am I?