THE UNUSUAL WOMAN

THE LIE  If loving me was easy, why couldn’t you do it too? If loving me was easy, why did you make it feel like labor, like something you had to survive? If loving me was easy, I would’ve learned how by now. I would’ve held myself gently, instead of breaking in your hands just to prove I was worth keeping. If loving me was simple, you wouldn’t have turned it into a test. You wouldn’t have made me earn what you gave so freely to others. If loving me was easy, I wouldn’t still be stitching myself together from the places you left undone. And if loving me was ever easy… maybe I would’ve believed you

Born from the ashes, drowned in memory, rising anyway - where grief becomes folklore and broken girls become legends.

Author's Note: The name Flower will be used for all my works, though the plot may not be related. I find it easier this way. Thank you!

xo - Ms. J

Flower's POV

I’m not the most reliable narrator due to the ongoing substance abuse, which I’ve only admitted to inside my head, along with the lingering effects of undiagnosed depression. Flower is the name the public addresses me as. I was more of a wilted and estranged garden artifact rather than a beautiful rose or sunflower. I wasn’t necessarily ashamed of my addiction. Most of the things I did were illegal, and that only made the high much better. Sickening, right?

There are different types of traumas between the duration of time leading to my decision to use various drugs to cope, and inevitably, it was like slapping a bandage onto a huge bullet hole that started in childhood and wedged itself deeper as I aged.

There are different side effects for each addiction of mine. Painkillers did exactly what the name stated—killed the pain. I was fluent enough with their effects to know the numbness only lasted for a fleeting moment, then I was back to the agonizing reality I tried so hard to escape. What stopped me the first time was death. Yes, I died. Narcan was the other drug that brought my lifeless and limp body back from the other side.

There was something off about me after I came back. I’d hear her—the woman I’ve been emotionally running from my entire life. She died when I was young, but I remember her death like it was yesterday. It was only a matter of time before someone pushed me too far, causing my mind to snap even further, as hers did.

“Tonight’s a full moon,” said a young female in an attempt at an eerie tone. She even wiggled her fingers in a failed spooky attempt to be creepy. Inevitably, she looked plain stupid.

“So?” one guy laughed.

“Ever heard of the Wailing Woman in the French Quarter?” another asked.

Personally, I enjoyed walking the French Quarter at night due to its creepy nature. There is a lot of rich history around this city. It was hard to ignore it, no matter the time.

I stabbed what was supposed to be French fries on my lunch tray with my fork, listening in as there really wasn’t anything else to do. The group of friends was also obnoxiously loud. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Wailing Woman heard them and pulled at their toes tonight in their sleep just for talking about her. I laughed.

“What are you giggling about?”

I straightened from my slouched posture. “Are you talking to me?”

“You’re the only freak laughing at food,” Lauren Andres spoke rudely. I sensed the darkness around Lauren but couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

A voice whispered close enough to my ear to send a cold chill down my spine.

“Save her,” it breathed.

I sensed fear—although I believed it to be Lauren’s fear. It wasn’t the first time this happened. It had been months since the voice began. I never acted on anything I heard, though something about this instance seemed different. The force felt stronger. I felt as if I had to help this girl; for whatever reason, I felt pulled to her lately. Even though she was a terrible person, I believed there was a reason behind her sour attitude—a cry for help.

“Hey, freak!” Lauren waved her hand in front of my face. I hadn’t realized she’d risen from her seat, making a show of my dissociation from reality. “I was talking to you.”

Her pain was visible on her skin. The bags under her eyes could still be seen beneath the layers of concealer and dark eye makeup. We held that in common, as I did the same thing. It was from lack of sleep and the pain from ongoing trauma.

“Who hurt you?” I asked before I could stop myself. The strange feeling was back. Even with her rudeness, I felt sympathy for the girl. She was hiding something painful.

Something flashed across her eyes. Rage? Pain? Confusion? I couldn’t decipher it, but there was something off—something her “friends” at the end of the cafeteria table were not aware of.

“Excuse me?” Lauren was baffled.

“It’s not your fault, Lauren.” I couldn’t help but continue to be kind to her.

She grabbed a fistful of my hair, jerking my head back and leaning toward my ear.

“Who the hell have you been talking to?” she hissed. I remained silent. “Are you stalking me?” Her voice was shaky and uncertain.

“Why would I waste my time?” I winced as she pulled harder, then released my hair. No one dared to do anything. Teachers didn’t care either.

I saw the pain within her features. I struck a chord. Lauren ignored her friends as they called for her once she stormed away.

“Go to her,” the voice whispered again. “She needs help.”

Against my better judgment, I followed Lauren miles outside of New Orleans. Our school was nearly on the border of the Crescent City. Nightshade is an old town everyone feared—and that said a lot, considering the city had its own myths and legends that made the hair on your arms stand.

The folklore of the Wailing Woman lurked within the forest of Nightshade as well. The idea of a banshee wandering the area in emotional distress never bothered me. It was fascinating.

Lauren halted her steps a few feet in front of an abandoned car, looking around before leaving her school bag inside. I was hidden behind a wooden fence, lurking unseen. I watched as she dragged forward, her sorrow prominent as she trailed toward a small mobile home.

Once she was inside, I ran discreetly to the old vehicle. There were burned papers and trash left behind from the wreckage. A bag she had left was tucked beneath a pile of charred newspapers. Some pages were readable. I lifted one, immediately feeling an overwhelming sense of agony.

It was about a fatal car accident a few years ago.

A car I wrecked. How?

Lauren Andres was my sister who was killed instantly. What?

The grief was unbearable, a rising scream trapped in my throat. I couldn’t take it. This couldn’t be real. I’d never hurt my family. How did I even forget them? The newspaper slipped from my fingers. I ran down the dirt road as far as I could before collapsing to my knees and wailing.

The sunlight dimmed around me, and suddenly, I was left in darkness—aware, but barely.

“Help me! Please, someone, help me!” I cried.

It was dark, and rain was falling hard onto my head.

I watched as the woman on the ground began slipping away. She resembled me, but older. It was my sister, Lauren. I went to speak but became mute. I reached out a helping hand to who I assumed was our mother, crying hysterically, and watched as my fingers slipped right through her.

What the hell?

Lauren looked directly at me, silently begging for help, and I couldn’t do a damn thing. It sickened me.

“Why won’t you help me?” Lauren suddenly screamed, startling me.

I realized she wasn’t looking at me, but at our mother standing behind me—tense, frantic, devastated.

“She deserves to die,” Mother cried, staring at my unconscious body inside the crushed vehicle. “Let her burn!”

Smoke filled the area quickly, and sirens wailed in the distance.

“No!” I finally screamed, so loud my ears rang. The force of it seemed to acknowledge me.

Then, I came out of whatever state I was in.

I’d like to consider myself a phoenix—more specifically, a phoenix in the rain. While a phoenix is forged in the ashes of fire, rising through rubble and flame, the bird evolves into a beautiful creature of God. But there are times when the flames are snuffed, and the glorious bird does not reach its full potential. I call such a tragedy a phoenix in the rain.

I have potential, though many milestones need to be reached before I can even begin setting my sights on something as enticing as moving past trauma. The realm I’m stuck inside is dark and lonely. The constant shadows and the eerie feeling of someone nearby—like I was being followed—suddenly didn’t bother me.

I realized now I was the one doing the following, unsure of where my life ended and where my new one began.

I was the Wailing Woman, destined for a life of sorrow and torment because of what I had so foolishly done.

I am the darkness, lurking with its awful aura upon the living.