I'm Destined for Death

My Final Destination

I hurried home, my mind still buzzing with the strange sense of unease the book had given me. When I walked in, the apartment felt... different. It was still small, but the clutter had been cleared away. The floor was swept, the laundry put away, and even the dishes were done. The familiar mess was gone, replaced by a small, fragile sense of order.

I dropped my bag by the door, the book inside still weighing heavily on my mind. But I had no time to dwell on that. I glanced at the clock—3:10 p.m. I had barely thirty minutes before the train arrived. I grabbed my jacket, threw my work badge into my bag, and packed up the leftover birthday cake from the fridge. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for dinner at work.

I quickly finished gathering my things and ran out the door, the weight of the book still lingering on my mind.

The train ride felt longer than usual. The usual faces of tired commuters didn’t help. I stood in the crowded car, feeling the familiar pull of exhaustion settling into my bones, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the strange world in the book.

By the time I reached the station, I was almost running to make up for lost time. When I arrived at the building, I could already feel the tension in the air, the cold, corporate atmosphere that awaited me.

"You’re late," my supervisor snapped as soon as I walked in, her sharp eyes scanning me like I was the last thing she needed to deal with.

"I know," I said quickly, hoping to appease her. "I’m sorry. There was traffic." A little lie wouldn't hurt.

She didn’t seem to care much about excuses. "This is the third time this month, Dianne. You need to get your act together if you want to keep this job. We can’t afford to have people constantly showing up late."

"I understand. It won’t happen again."

"Good," she muttered before turning back to her screen. "Now get to work. You’re in collections tonight."

I didn’t say anything else. I just nodded and walked over to my station, slipping into my seat and putting on my headset. The calls began to pile up almost immediately, the voices on the other end blending into one long blur. Problems, complaints, people wanting things fixed or refunded. Same old, same old.

But today felt different. Every call felt like it was in a fog, my mind not fully there. The book, the world, the secrets—it kept gnawing at me, pulling my attention away from the repetitive motions of my job.

I glanced at the clock—time was moving so slowly. The hours felt like they were stretching on forever. Each customer, each complaint, felt like just another thing to get through, but my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about the book. Was I in danger? Were the characters I was reading about real? Why did everything feel so connected to me?

As my shift dragged on, the fluorescent lights above flickered and buzzed. The mundane chatter of the office and the endless ringing phones seemed like a distant hum. My back ached from sitting for too long, and my eyes burned from the lack of sleep. My fingers, though, moved almost on their own, responding to the calls with the same scripted phrases.

"Thank you for calling. How can I assist you today?" I muttered mechanically into the headset, my voice blending into the office’s noise. Every now and then, my eyes would wander over to my bag, where the book sat inside. It was like it was calling to me, waiting for me to read more, to uncover what was hidden inside.

Eventually, my shift came to an end. It was 3 a.m. The office was quieter now, most of my coworkers gone home for the night. The city outside was dark, the streets nearly empty.

I packed up my things slowly, trying to shake the exhaustion from my body. My mind was still tangled with the events from the book, the sense that something was off, something I didn’t fully understand. I could feel the weight of the book in my bag as I left the office, stepping into the cool night air. The quiet of the city felt different tonight, almost like the calm before a storm.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen—something that would change everything. But for now, all I could do was head home and try to get some rest.

The train station felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones when you’re already running on empty. I glanced at the clock: 3:30 a.m. The last train had already left. Great.

I sighed and sank back into the uncomfortable metal bench, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me. I could already feel the fatigue creeping back in, pushing its way through my muscles and bones. The book was still tucked in my bag, and for a moment, I considered opening it again. But I had no time for that now. I needed to get home.

I stood up and made my way toward the public restroom, desperate to at least freshen up before my next train came. The cold air from the restroom’s cracked door hit me, and I winced as I stepped inside. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It wasn’t the cleanest place, but it was better than nothing.

I tried the first sink. No water. The second one? Also dry. Great. Third time’s the charm, right? I moved to the third sink, and sure enough, water came out—but only weakly, as if the plumbing was about to give out. It was barely enough to splash on my face, but I did it anyway, the cold droplets stinging my skin.

I tried not to think about how gross the place felt as I wiped my face with my hands. The floor was stained in spots, and the scent of old soap hung in the air, mixing with something I couldn't quite place. I quickly stepped away from the sink, my patience already running thin.

Needing to relieve myself, I moved toward the nearest stall. But as soon as I stepped inside, my stomach churned. The toilet was disgusting—someone had clearly missed the mark, and the smell made me gag. There was no way I was using that. I backed out quickly, crossing my legs as my bladder reminded me that I was running out of time.

In the end, I opted to hold it in. The last thing I needed right now was to get caught in a bathroom mishap. I left the restroom, already feeling more frustrated than before.

As I walked back to the bench, I stepped right into something sticky. My foot made a loud splat, and I immediately recoiled. Some poor soul had dropped gum, and I had just become its unfortunate victim. I groaned under my breath, looking down to find my shoe stuck to the pavement, a mix of gum and dirt caked on the bottom. Of course, this would happen.

Finally, I reached the bench, sat down, and rubbed my eyes, trying to ignore how tired I felt. The book had been a decent distraction, but reality had caught up with me. I reached into my bag and pulled it out again, only to see the screen flicker above me.

Next train: 4:00 a.m.

I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I had missed the last one. But hey, at least I could make the 4 a.m. train. My eyelids drooped as I slumped back on the bench. The longer I sat there, the more everything seemed to blur together. The flickering lights above, the sound of the occasional distant voice, the quiet hum of the late-night air—it all felt like part of a dream I couldn’t wake up from.

I glanced up at the clock again. It was getting close to 4 a.m. I stood up, stretching out my stiff legs and grabbing my bag. My feet still stuck to the gum, but I could deal with it later.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker crackled to life. My stomach sank as the announcer’s voice echoed through the station.

“We regret to inform you that due to mechanical issues, the 4:00 a.m. train has been delayed. The next train will depart at 6:00 a.m.”

What.

I blinked in disbelief. I checked my phone to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, but the time confirmed it. 4 a.m. had come and gone. I looked around, noticing that the few other people who had been waiting were now gathering their things and leaving. They must’ve known it was going to be a while.

I sank back down onto the bench, feeling my exhaustion double. The cold air nipped at my face as I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my mind spinning in frustration. The book was still in my bag, a potential source of distraction, but I didn’t have the energy to dive back into it now.

The station had grown eerily quiet again, and the small fluorescent lights hummed faintly above. The bench I sat on was uncomfortably hard, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the series of mishaps that had already led me here tonight.

First, the missed train. Then the bathroom fiasco. Then the gum. And now, another two-hour delay.

I was beyond tired. And the weird feeling from earlier, that strange connection to the book, was now a nagging thought that refused to leave me alone. Something about this whole situation felt… off. The timing, the delays, the constant feeling of things slipping out of my control—it was like I had become a character in a story that wasn’t mine.

I glanced around the nearly empty station. A few people wandered by, checking their watches, pacing back and forth, but no one seemed to mind that the train was two hours behind schedule.

I should’ve been home by now. I should’ve been in bed, resting for work. But instead, here I was, stuck in this weird limbo, just waiting for the next train, feeling like I was waiting for something to happen that I didn’t fully understand.

The book… It was calling to me again. My mind wandered back to it, and I found myself debating whether I should dive back in, try to ignore the nagging thoughts that kept bubbling up in my mind.

As I reached into my bag for it, I noticed something strange out of the corner of my eye. The lights flickered again, this time a little longer than before. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, but I dismissed it, blaming the exhaustion.

But there it was again. A strange sensation that something… or someone… was watching me.

I shook my head and opened the book. The words on the page were waiting for me, more vivid now, like they were alive, pulling me into the story once again.

The grand council chamber was alive with hushed voices, each man at the table leaning toward another, whispering conspiracies and suspicions under their breath. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and the weight of something unspoken. The mood was not one of mourning, but of calculation.

At the head of the table, the king’s hand cleared his throat. “Tragedy has struck,” he began, though his voice lacked true sorrow. “Last night, an assassin’s arrow found its mark… but not in the intended target.”

Murmurs spread like wildfire, and the archbishop shook his head solemnly. “Lady Seraphine still walks, and yet the Duchess of Everthorne has fallen.”

A silence fell upon them all as the heavy oak doors creaked open.

The Duke of Everthorne entered.

All sound vanished.

The men who had been speaking in whispers a moment before now shifted uncomfortably, their faces tense with unreadable expressions. Some lowered their heads, murmuring condolences, others kept their eyes fixed firmly on the table, unwilling to meet his gaze.

The Duke’s black coat was crisp, his expression unreadable. He walked slowly, deliberately, toward his usual seat at the council table, but he did not sit.

“I offer my deepest sympathies, Your Grace,” the Earl of Renshire said cautiously, the first to break the silence. “The loss of the duchess is… unthinkable.”

“Truly,” another voice followed, one of the church’s high officials. “A cruel mistake. The assassin sought Lady Seraphine, and yet—”

“They wore the same dress,” the king’s hand cut in, his fingers drumming against the table. “The same cloak. It was an error, but—” He paused, eyes sharp. “There are whispers that it was no mistake at all.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as daggers.

“You suggest,” the Duke finally spoke, his voice deep and measured, “that I had my own wife killed?”

The councilmen shifted in their seats. The air was heavy with accusations.

“The timing is… convenient,” an older nobleman dared to say. “Your lady came from a wealthy house. Their fortune will now pass to you.”

“Not to mention,” another muttered, “the assassin was never caught.”

Across the table, the Archbishop exhaled. “This is a dangerous discussion.”

“And yet it must be had,” the king’s hand insisted. “Because while the duchess lies in her grave, the prince still clings to Seraphine. He still wishes to make her his bride. And Lady Vivienne—”

The mention of the promised lady’s name made a few nobles glance away in discomfort.

“She is devastated,” the Earl of Renshire finished grimly. “Betrayed. Humiliated.”

“The people are furious,” another man added. “The church denounces Seraphine’s very existence. The nobility sees her as a threat to the kingdom’s stability. And now, with the duchess’ death—”

The room exploded into overlapping voices, speculations of treachery, of fate, of misfortune.

Then—

“Enough!”

The single word crashed through the chamber like thunder.

The Duke had slammed his hand against the table, and the power in his voice silenced the room in an instant.

He stood tall, his gaze sweeping across every man present, daring them to meet his eye.

“My wife did not die for this,” he said, his voice steady, but laced with something dangerous beneath the surface. “You sit here, weaving conspiracies, debating the future of a kingdom, while a woman’s life has been stolen in vain. You insult her memory with your petty grievances, your political maneuvering. If you speak of treachery, do not dare place my name upon your lips.”

The men swallowed, shifting uncomfortably, but no one spoke.

The Duke exhaled slowly, his hands still braced against the table. His jaw was tight, his knuckles pale from how hard he clenched his fists.

And then, quieter—

“Her name… was Dianne.”

Wait… what?

The unnamed duchess… was named Dianne?

My breath caught in my throat. Up until now, the book had only referred to her as the Duchess of Everthorne, as if her name had been scrubbed from history, as if she were never meant to be remembered. But then—

"Dianne."

My name.

A strange chill prickled down my spine, an uneasy static buzzing in my ears. The coffee shop’s warm light, the distant hum of soft music, the scent of old paper and roasted beans—it all faded into the background. The book in my hands suddenly felt heavier, like it had weight, like it was something more than just a story.

I blinked, trying to shake the feeling, but my fingers tightened around the worn pages. My own name stared back at me in smudged ink, like it had been waiting for me to find it.

A sharp chime cut through the silence.

“The next train is now arriving. Please stand behind the yellow line.”

I flinched, reality snapping back into place. My heart was hammering. I shut the book, gripping it tightly as I rushed to my feet.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been reading.

My body ached, exhaustion curling in my bones like a second skin. I hadn’t slept properly. I hadn’t eaten much. My stomach still churned from the stale cake I packed for work. But none of it mattered now—I had a train to catch.

I stepped toward the platform, my mind still tangled in the words I’d just read.

Dianne.

"Her name was Dianne."

The coincidence was messing with my head. It had to be a coincidence, right?

The mechanical hum of the train echoed in the distance, its headlights cutting through the dim, fogged air of the nearly empty station. My legs felt heavy, sluggish, like I was moving through water. I barely registered the muffled announcement playing overhead—something about a delay, something about maintenance issues.

I stepped forward.

A slip.

My heel caught on something.

A strange, sticky resistance.

Gum.

I had stepped on gum, again.

I yanked my foot back, frustrated, but the sudden jerk made me stumble. My balance wavered—just for a second.

The train's horn blared.

"Too loud. Too close."

A sharp breath. My head felt light. My vision was blurred.

The exhaustion. The sleepless nights. The aching weight of everything pressing down on me all at once.

"...Stand behind the yellow line."

Another step forward—

My bag slipped from my shoulder, the book tumbling out. It hit the platform, pages fluttering open.

Ink-stained words stared up at me.

"Her name was Dianne."

I reached for it—

A rush of air.

A deafening roar.

The train surged forward.

I gasped, arms flailing—

A hand brushed against the book.

Then—

Nothing.