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A Hundred Lifetimes

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billionaire
revenge
reincarnation/transmigration
fated
bxg
mystery
vampire
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Blurb

Having been alive for more than a hundred years, Shay was getting tired of endlessly living, dying, and waking up in a different body. That was until she met a peculiar man named Dorian—who lived in the rumored haunted mansion at the end of Cherry Lane—and she accidentally took on the form of his long-lost love, who happened to be dead for 122 years.

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One
"I'm about to die." That was the first thought that came into my mind the very moment I woke up that one, lazy Saturday morning. "I'm giving it three hours tops," I reckoned, since during my past life—or should I say, when I was in my past body—the last time I felt like this, I died in my sleep not three hours later. Having had lived more than 20 lives, and consequently died more than 20 times, I think it is perfectly understandable when I say that I was not the tiniest bit worried that my current life was about to end within the day. I was, in a sense, used to it. It doesn’t mean, however, that it gets easier every time, but if you have died the number of times that I have, then you would also learn how to accept the fact that there is nothing you could do about it, except to fully accept it. So, as soon as I woke up, I went on about my day like the usual, unaware of the turn that it would take. The life I was living then was that of an old lady. I didn’t know for sure what age the body I had was, but it was around 70 to 75—give or take. It must be quite unsettling to hear me talk about my body as if it wasn’t mine—like I stole it. Mind you, I didn’t steal it. I like to call it “shapeshifting.” It’s catchier, it sounds like a werewolf superpower—even though it technically is not—and it’s a word that best encapsulates the experience. For as long as I could remember, I’ve been living and dying as other people. How it works exactly and why it happens, even I cannot be too sure. However, this is what’s for certain: 1. I cannot shapeshift into someone that is still alive. I don’t have total control over the form that I take, but I’m sure that they’re of people that had been alive at some point. I would have loved to be Superman or Catwoman, but no, fictional characters do not count. Often times, after I die, I wake up in a random person’s body—male or female of varying age and nationality. Sometimes, however, it seems like the universe would let me choose. A few times now I’ve shapeshifted into the last image of a dead person I saw or was thinking of before my last body expired. For instance, the old lady whose form I took. I saw a picture of her on the internet when I received a wrong email invitation to her funeral. When my previous body died, the face of the old lady flashed in my head and the next thing I knew, I had woken up in her form—the exact one I saw in the picture. And this old lady apparently liked the taste of Orchard Apple Juice with less sugar, to be exact. This leads us to: 2. I do not necessarily know the person's name or have their memories, but I do inherit a bit of their taste and very rarely get flashes of their memories. I once took a body that was apparently French, and the next thing I knew, I was spouting random French words as if I were a native speaker. This one, I was sure, liked to drink that very specific apple juice every morning—because I, too, wanted to do so after I woke up in her body. That was why on that Saturday morning, with barely 3 hours to live, I suddenly craved it. So, back in my small, old house at the edge of the city, I walked to the kitchen in search for apple juice. But before opening the fridge, I looked out the window that overlooked the street, just to see if he would be on time again that day. I checked the clock on the wall. A few seconds until 5:55 AM. I waited, watching the second hand tick. Just like clockwork, the jogger ran past by my house at 5:55 in the morning, as he had done so every weekday since I moved into this house 5 years ago. I opened the fridge and found the carton to be empty. With a sigh, I walked to the door, grabbed my cane, and went to the 24/7 grocery store at the end of the street—literally named 24/7 Grocery Store, to let people know its business. At 6 in the morning, it was the only place in the vicinity that was open, and much to my luck, they were out of stock. Very kindly, I asked one of the staff if they had any store branches nearby that offered the very specific juice my body was craving. Of course, the young man was happy to help the sweet, old lady that asked for help. In a few minutes, I was told that the nearest one that had it was their largest branch by the other side of the city—which was a bit more than half an hour drive away, or maybe less given the light traffic that early in the day. It would have been good and all, if it weren’t for the fact that I didn’t have a car and using public transportation was a literal pain in the knees. The store worker, who notice how my face suddenly fell at the supposed good news, offered me a ride since his shift had just ended. Of course, I didn’t refuse. He dropped me off at the store branch he had mentioned, and even said a polite “Have a good day, ma’am!” before driving away. Before I entered the store, I didn’t think much of anything. For all I knew, I was just there to buy some apple juice in the richer, fancier part of the city. The branch was in a street called Cherry Lane. There were rumors that it was named as such because more than a century ago, at least a dozen people were found dead along it. As to why, there were a couple of variations in the s********e say there was a murder spree, others say there were monsters, some say they just randomly dropped dead (“like magic!”), and another source says that a fight broke out between the rich and the poor. Whatever the reason was, all versions of the story seemed to agree that a lot of people died that night, and so the street was initially nicknamed the “Blood Lane.” But, eventually, it was renamed to try to veer away from its horrific history. Personally, I would have liked to know what really happened that day, but even I am not sure where I was—or if I was even already alive back then. The thing with my shapeshifting, you see, is that I’ve gone through so many lives for more than a hundred years, that I didn’t even know when or how it all started. In fact, I didn’t even know if I was originally someone with an original identity and an original face, or if I just came into this world as something that took on other people’s forms. My memory, for some reason, only extended up to a certain point. But, let’s not get sidetracked with my never-ending existential crisis. Cherry Lane had always been a “rich street,” even if you’d think people would be averse to living in it, given its gory history. It used to house prominent people who threw balls, dances, galas—whatever fancy event to show off their wealth and stature. Nowadays, it’s lined with large gated houses and mansions that only a certain class of people—the ones that own Tesla’s and Lamborghini's and leave them parked in their garage, because they have 3 more—could afford. As someone who had been alive for a very long time, I had also amassed quite a sum of money. In fact, if I wanted to, I could have lived in Cherry Lane—not to brag or anything. However, my “rich phase” had already come and gone. There was a time when I was so obsessed with money and material things, living in a penthouse at another city around 50 to 60 years ago, buying all the fancy clothes, travelling all over, and making reckless decisions. Eventually, it made me realize that no amount of money or power could ever give me the satisfaction that I truly craved. It wasn’t like I had someone to share them with as well. There was one time I fell in love with and married a man while I was in the body of a young woman. So, it was much to his surprise when he suddenly woke up, a year into our marriage, next to the body of a teenage boy that I shifted into, who looked nothing like the wife he had married. That, suffice it to say, did not end happily. I also had to find out the hard way that it was better to be alone than to spend someone’s lifetime with them, when they couldn’t spend my lifetime with me. Now that—seeing a loved one grow old and die while I simply lived on in another form—was just too heartbreaking to take. So, I had settled into living a life—or lives—alone. There weren’t much people in the 24/7 Grocery Store. Aside from the staff and I, there were only a handful of people. I went about my mission, happily took one carton of Orchard apple juice (with less sugar) and made my way to the cashier. And that… That was when I saw him. In front of me, getting his groceries scanned, was a man wearing a gray hoodie and jogging pants to match. He had on blue running shoes, and his wavy brown hair stuck out from underneath the black cap he was wearing. It was not his outfit that I found odd—in fact, he had just looked like a normal guy in his late 20’s, going out for a run. It was when he turned around when he noticed that someone was standing behind him. The first thing that captured my attention was how his dark brown eyes—which almost looked black in the shadow casted by his cap—made his skin look even paler. But it wasn’t the fact the he was beautiful—what with his high cheekbones, and square, bony jawline—that caught my eye. It was that something about him felt quite familiar, but I just couldn’t place it. His eyebrows slightly moved to the center as he looked down on me. He was probably wondering why an old lady was staring at him, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just turned back to the cashier who had given him the total amount of money he had to pay. He brought his wallet out of his back pocket, and for some reason, glanced at me again with the same expression, then quickly handed his card to the cashier. As he was collecting his paper bags, I noticed something unusual on the floor. I bent to pick it up. A photo. Specifically, a black and white photo of a beautiful woman in a lacy, old-fashioned dress. It was as if something inside my brain clicked. I couldn’t exactly explain it, but the more I looked at her, the more I felt like I knew her. “Ma’am?” The cashier lady called, snapping me out from the trance. “Ma’am?” she repeated, so I looked up at her said a guilty “Sorry,” before handing her the juice carton. In the corner of my eye, I saw the man in a hoodie leave the front door. I quickly paid and followed him—as fast as I could with my currently bad knees and hip. “Hey!” I yelled as soon as I exited the store. It was a good thing he was carrying three bags and walking slowly. “Hey, young man in a hoodie!” I yelled again. That seemed to catch his attention. He stopped walking. “Yes, you, gray hoodie man!” I said as I finally caught up to him. He turned to face me, and even looked behind him to see if I was really talking to him. When he found no one, he asked, “Me?” I stopped walking and panted, my knees painful and my lungs trying to catch up. “Yes,” I repeated, then waved the photo at him. “Is this yours?” He looked confused but walked towards me anyway, to look at whatever it was I was holding. When he finally realized what it was, his eyes went wide and he immediately took it from my hand. “How did you get this?” he asked, as he held it carefully with both hands—as if he had almost lost something so valuable and so fragile. “I think it fell off your wallet,” I simply said. “Oh,” he said, putting it back into his wallet. “Thank you.” He turned to leave, but he stopped midway and looked at me again. He stared at my eyes as if there was something he wanted to ask. “What is it?” I asked. I barely had more than 2 hours in my body and I had no intention dying on the street that day. “It’s just,” he hesitated. “Do I know you?” It wasn’t in my place to think that he was crazy, because he, too, had felt familiar. “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “I don’t think so.” Because I really didn’t. It was just simply improbable. I only had the old lady's form for 5 years, and for the most of it, I stayed inside the house and I was sure I would’ve remembered meeting such a pale, good-looking man. Before that, I was living somewhere far East, and I was sure the old lady was from a different country. So, unless the old lady (when she was alive) met this young man before, it was impossible that we knew each other. “Alright,” he said, a frown on his beautiful face. “Thank you, again. Goodbye.” He said it so reluctantly that I thought he would stay longer. Instead, he cast one last confused glance at me then walked away. I watched him until he turned around the corner. I don’t know why but instead of hurrying home, I walked out into the street to continue to watch him walk away. He continued down Cherry Lane, further until he was almost by end of the street, until he looked like a blur with my eyesight. I died a few hours later. I was at home, having had quenched my thirst for Orchard Apple Juice, and sitting on my comfortable couch while a random comedy show was playing on the TV. I had closed my eyes when I felt it coming—a heart attack, it seemed. Not the most peaceful way to die, but it was better than getting hit by a truck (happened to me once, and boy, did it hurt like a b!). For some reason, in my final moments, the man from the store appeared in my mind. He had looked so familiar, and I got an itch as if I needed to say something to him—but what, I didn’t know. That’s the thing. For all these decades, all these lives, the only thing that was constant was the feeling that I had something I needed to do. That was the only thing I knew that linked me to my past—possibly, even, to the very beginning of my life. Well, maybe except for the necklace that hung around my neck. That, too, had been with me as long as I could remember, and I had no idea where it came from. So, there I was, dying again, without a clue what exactly it was that I needed to do. Instead, as I closed my eyes, the man's pale face and his brown eyes flashed underneath my eyelids as I felt the pain in my arm and my chest. And, just as I was to draw my last breath, I saw the lady in the photo's face. I woke up with an unpleasant yet familiar headache exactly 24 hours later. That had always been the routine, and I was right on schedule. I guess it took me that much time for my body to fully rearrange its cells. I stood up from the couch, slightly disappointed but not surprised that I lived to see another day. I don’t know why people relish in the idea of eternal life. Trust me, it isn’t fun. After a hundred years or so, the sweet release of death seemed much palatable than the continuous hassle of changing faces. As I stretched my legs, the first thing that I noticed was how easily I could move my joints. When I looked down, my skin was much firmer and when I touched my head, my hair was longer and healthier. “Ahem, hello,” I tested my vocal cords. They were working, alright, and my new voice was so feminine and light that I had a feeling this person could also sing well. I hurried to the mirror to check out my new body, and found myself staring at the face of the lady in the photo. “Oh my god,” I breathed out loud, as I turned my face sideways just to make sure, but there was no mistaking it. The light brown eyes, the shiny, long, curly brown hair, the delicate heart-shaped face… there was no denying it. I had inadvertently shifted into “her.” Whoever she was. I admired my new reflection. She was undoubtedly pretty—like, old-school pretty. Much like how the man in a hoodie was old-school beautiful for a man. And similar to how I had felt when I saw him, looking at this face also gave me a feeling of familiarity. “Who are you?” I asked, knowing that I wouldn’t get an answer even if I did so. I closed my eyes and waited for it—for some of her memories to upload in my head, as it usually does the first few minutes after I inhibit a new body. Without fail, I suddenly felt woozy and an image came into mind. It was of a house—no, bigger than that, a mansion—at the end of Cherry Lane.

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