FGI 1: The Heir of the Beast

I always attract jealous men.

Honestly, I must be putting off these weak-woman signals faster than 5G. I attract them like bears to honey or—more fitting to my current mood—flies to shit.

I don’t do it on purpose. It just seems to be my lot in life. I suppose you could call me unlucky.

Flaw number 685.

Come to find out Mafia bosses’ sons do not take breakups well—not even in the slightest.

That’s exactly how I ended up hiding in an alleyway, crouching behind a trash can.

I told him it was over, but he simply couldn’t accept it. He’s been following me around for hours, trying to get me to talk to him. I have no intention of speaking to him ever again of course, but he can’t seem to wrap his head around that.

“VIOLA!”

My stomach drops as my heart pounds, hard.

“This is not over! I will find you!” he yells ominously, giving me goosebumps.

I feel something on my foot and glance down.

My hand covers the scream that wants to rise out of my throat.

A large, nasty rat is sniffing my boots.

That’s the last straw. I’m leaving tonight and never looking back. I know Tony will think I will eventually come crawling back to him. Never.

After waiting till the coast is clear, I head home. The French Quarter dashes by in a blur. I barely notice the hordes of drunk people stumbling around me.

Leaving New Orleans was always part of the plan, but not this soon.

I open the rickety door of my apartment, grabbing my suitcase. I carelessly toss random items in, but leave most of my stuff behind. Most of it is garbage anyway. It’s hard to pack when you don’t know where you’re going.

All I know is that I need a fresh start. Somewhere far far away, where no one knows me.

Finally, I settle on buying myself a Greyhound bus ticket first thing tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter which bus, just the first one leaving. I’d figure it out from there.

I wipe the beads of sweat from my brow and take a labored breath of humid, suffocating air.

The loud whine of my air conditioner seems to morph into high-pitched laughter, revealing its true self—one of the bad guys the whole time! I was deceived. It never meant to cool off the room.

New Orleans has always been two steps from hell in the month of July. And it doesn’t help that I live on the top floor of an old Victorian house either.

It’s almost like the old, haunted wood has a deal with the devil—to claim the souls who inhabit this furnace.

I sift through my almost empty fridge. There’s only a block of molding cheese, a half-eaten apple, and a can of Diet Coke. I crack the can open and it foams over, spilling everywhere. Rushing to the sink to wipe myself down, I notice something odd on the kitchen counter. Looking quite out of place in my dingy apartment, is a sparkly golden letter. It makes a twinkling sound when I pick it up.

Apprehensively, I open the envelope.

Let’s list the facts and look at this logically:

*I hear clear twinkling sounds of sparkles.

I look up at the clock.

Talk about impulsive decisions…

I toy with the pen that came in the envelope.

I think about this.

If this is a hidden camera show or a scientific study to test dumb and gullible women, then I will be a proud statistic. Maybe they’re offering to counsel us? I might benefit from that.

This could be a study approved by Dr. Phil! I mean, I always wanted to get counseling. Kind of a hidden desire, actually.

I secretly want the doctors to look at me and tell me if I really am psychotic or if I have been mistreated my whole life and it’s not my fault, and then we would cry together. I could break down the emotional walls.

I know I have to get out of New Orleans—could this be my answer?

Am I doing this then?

I pause for a second, considering my options. Greyhound buses do give me motion sickness.

I suck in a sharp breath.

I have bought a ticket to Crazy Town.

Or a nice bed at a rehab center.

The hands of the clock tick slowly. I have thirty seconds left.

Just as the clock strikes midnight, I scribble my signature on the dotted line.

For a moment, everything is still.

Right then, the front door breaks open, shards of wood fly everywhere, and I have to duck behind the kitchen counter to avoid being impaled. That would be a slow way to die, and a slow death is not something I’m interested in. Like a vacuum, the force sucks everything out of my apartment. I try grabbing onto the door frame, but my legs are being pulled up. I grit my teeth, grunting as I see my bed frame barreling towards my head. I let go at the last second, giving in to the force sucking me up towards the night sky. My arms thrash violently as I try to find my bearings.

Before I know it, I am swirling ten feet above the ground, then twenty, thirty… All of New Orleans is sprawled out in front of me, slowly getting smaller and smaller.

I look up and my eyes widen. I never thought I’d go out like this. Right above me is a spaceship and I am being drawn right into it.