Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Octobre 10, 1307

I never thought I'd actually be grateful to wake up in another time. My last...time, life, adventure...whatever the hell you want to call it, really sort of put things in perspective. Being thrown around through space and time doesn't seem like such a bummer when you know what it feels like to be burned alive.

Oh yeah. I frickin' remember what it feels like to be burned ALIVE.

I remember desperately trying to inhale the smoke so that would kill me instead of the flames. It must have worked in some respect, but not before I could feel the fire licking at my legs. My hair caught more quickly than I would have expected. My skin blistered and began to peel from my flesh. The screams just seemed to rip themselves from my throat.

Part of me needs to write this down. Like it will somehow purge it from my mind. The rest of me would just like to never think about it again. But I can't stop from thinking about it.

From remembering it. Even though I wasn't...actually there? Or...oh for Christ's sake, I don't know. Abby wasn't there, Amalie was.

Which is sort of new. Up until now, I've only really remembered the things that happened to these women before and during the time I fell into their lives. Now I'm starting to remember more. 

I'm starting to remember things I didn't do.

I don't know why that last time was different. Maybe because it was slightly more traumatic than the others? And, by slightly, I mean extremely. 

Honestly, I'm...I'm getting tired of this. I don't care why it's happening anymore. I just want it to stop.

I want to go back to Abby's life. Her—my boring job, and family that doesn't burn me for stuff that doesn't exist. My predictable routine and electricity and indoor plumbing.

Hell, I'd even take just going back to Abigail Russell. She lived a quiet life with Dan Blaine. A nice life.

I know that...because I can remember it. My head feels like it's packed to bursting with memories of events I never experienced. 

I could probably sit here all day, trying to figure out what changed. I could spend an entire year trying to untangle all of the new memories pinging around my head like pinballs.

But Eleanor doesn't have that kind of time.

That's who I woke up as this morning. Eleanor. A woman from just outside of Paris.

She runs a small farm with her mother. Her father died somewhere in the Holy Land, which left the running of the farm to her.

Right now, I'm up before even the sun has risen, writing all of this by candlelight. I know I won't have another chance today until late tonight and I just need to get some of this out of my head.

I might go crazy otherwise.

I still might, either way.

One last thing before I end this: Daniel didn't keep his promise.

I can remember looking toward the nearby hills leading away from the village. I saw him standing there, a dark blot against the golden leaves of fall. Through the smoke and tears, I'd watched as he'd fallen to his knees, head tipped back to scream at the sky before burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

That image, more than the others, is burned into my mind.