Borrowed Lives

She stood in a dimly lit room. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls. Before her lay an assortment of exotic plants, their vibrant hues and unusual shapes, unlike anything in a typical garden. Her hands moved with an almost mechanical precision, grinding the leaves and petals into a fine powder. The pestle's rhythmic motion echoed in the silence. She poured the powder into a small vial, then added a few drops of an amber-hued liquid. Slowly, the mixture swirled, thickening into a dark, viscous substance.

She now stood outside a local bar. Her smile was malicious. Her eyes were malevolent.

Inside the bar, a man’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. His body jerked once—twice—before he clutched his chest, his breath strangled in his throat. A single word, rasped and broken—“Help.” Then his eyes bulged. A violent shudder wracked his body, sending his chair toppling backward as he collapsed. Gasps and screams erupted around him, but it was already too late. The light in his eyes had faded.

***

Vivienne jolted awake from the harrowing nightmare. Sweat pooled on her brow. The dream had felt so real—she could almost taste the dark, viscous liquid, smell its strange aroma, and hear the man’s desperate cry for help.

She had fallen asleep at her desk while writing in her journal, her head resting on her arm. A tingling sensation ran through her stiff neck and shoulders as she sat up. Blinking a few times, she tried to shake off the disorientation. The dim glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across the room.

The clock read 3:00 AM. Outside, the city was silent, the rhythmic dance of raindrops against the glass oddly soothing—despite the occasional flicker of lightning. Then, suddenly, a blinding flash illuminated the room, followed by a deep, rolling thunder. Vivienne closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. The familiar tingle crept down her spine—the unmistakable pull of her spirit. It was time. She exhaled a knowing sigh and glanced around one last time. The fear ebbed, replaced by a quiet acceptance. Then, a faint smile tugged at her lips.

For the past three months, she had lived another woman’s life—a well-known news anchor, adored by many, her days filled with glamour and excitement. A dream she had once longed for had become her reality, if only temporarily. She had been fortunate; typically, her borrowed lives were fleeting, cut short by nature’s whims. Only lightning had the power to call her spirit back to its original form, and the skies had been unusually calm—until now.

Vivienne’s vision blurred, and a rush of energy surged through her. In an instant, the city faded.

The familiar sounds of the countryside night greeted her—the rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the patter of rain on the roof.

She was home.

Vivienne, a 25-year-old woman, lived alone in the old farmhouse her parents had left behind. Nestled in a secluded valley, the air around her was alive with the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves—a stark contrast to the bustling city life she desperately longed for. Her wild auburn hair mirrored the untamed look in her brown eyes—eyes that held both the mystery of the unknown and the heavy burden of knowing too much. They gleamed with sharp observation, yet remained hollow as if yearning for something far beyond the ordinary. Her cheeks were laden with freckles that she abhorred. Her face was unremarkable, except for a single beauty mark on her right cheek—the only feature she came to like.

Vivienne rarely spoke to anyone except Ms. Constance, a distant cousin and aging spinster who lived next door. There was a quiet understanding between them, a bond forged not by words but by the shared weight of their solitude. One night, as rain poured in torrents, Ms. Constance stood outside Vivienne’s house, arms spread wide, naked beneath the storm.

“You can’t keep living someone else’s life and expect to stay whole, Vivienne!” she shouted, her voice swallowed by the thunder. Vivienne hurried after her, a robe in hand.

“I once had a lover.” Ms. Constance had once shared. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Very clever, too. He had ebony hair that reached his waist. His eyes, those eyes, they pierced through me, as if they could read every thought, every dark secret I held. And the way he held my hand, there was such tenderness and calmness.” Ms. Constance looked entranced, lost in the memories of her younger days. But Vivienne also noticed a tinge of sadness hidden beneath the facade of contentment, an acceptance of what was and what is.

“My father did not approve of him. He said he was a heartbreaker and that I was doomed if I pursued our budding relationship. Oh, how he broke down when I ended it. Then I heard he sailed to Alaska. I can only hope the cold weather there has numbed his heart as much as I’ve been trying to numb mine. It was a love that could never be felt again.”

“And that’s why you’ve remained alone all this time.” It wasn’t so much a question from Vivienne as an astute observation.

When Ms. Constance broke her lover’s heart, she lost her will to live, and over time, her own sanity followed. Vivienne felt Ms. Constance's imprisonment deep in her bones, for she too was trapped in isolation, a life she desperately wanted to avoid. She yearned to escape, not just from the farm, but from a life that felt like a cage.

Vivienne’s childhood had been a mosaic of dreams and aspirations. She wanted to be a lawyer, fighting for justice in a courtroom. She once dreamed of being a news anchor, delivering the day's stories with poise and confidence. Most of all, she dreamed of being a writer, weaving tales that could transport readers to different worlds. Her imagination was boundless, and her future seemed bright and full of possibilities.

But when she was ten years old, something inexplicable happened. One morning, Vivienne’s mother found her unconscious, and her mother was terrified. Vivienne remained that way for two days. Those two days were shrouded in mystery. From that day on, her mother never let her out of her sight, constantly fearing that something terrible would happen again and that no one would be there to help. Thus began her confinement in the farmhouse.

The incident was never spoken of, and its true nature remained a secret known only to her. She was afraid to tell her mother what she had experienced, fearing disbelief or dismissal. Yet, the memory was vivid and haunting. She remembered every detail of those two days.

As a child, she often wondered why she was in her own body and not someone else’s. She would observe others with a sense of curiosity, imagining their thoughts and lives. This curiosity grew with her, and on that fateful day, as she lay unconscious, her spirit entered the body of her schoolteacher. Bewildered and scared, she remained that way until a lightning strike occurred two days later and returned her to her own body. That was when she discovered that her spirit could leave her body and enter someone else’s. But it never happened again, for Vivienne never wondered about people’s lives and thoughts again. Until the death of her parents.

With the recent passing of her parents, she had unearthed a dormant gift long forgotten, and it was proving to be a delightful interlude in her otherwise mundane life. That night, after long and thoughtful contemplation, and still reeling from the sweet taste of life as a news anchor, Vivienne devised yet another possession. This time, she had in mind the body of a prosecutor as her next host—someone she knew was working on a murder case. The allure of such a case piqued her curiosity—so much to uncover!

To become an attorney—ah, the very notion stirred her longing soul. This, her most coveted ambition, promised power. She envisioned herself wielding the law like a double-edged sword, dispensing justice with one hand while, in her darker and more sinister musings, manipulating the law's loopholes to her advantage. For she knew all too well, as did those of a similarly corrupt mind, that the law was riddled with imperfections. And as a lawyer, she would unearth every buried flaw, every hidden vice, to bend the world to her will…

In the background, the news anchor Vivienne had recently possessed was presenting. She looked lost—her brows furrowed, her eyes wary, her voice devoid of emotion, her cheeks gaunt. A small price to pay for Vivienne’s invasion. Vivienne barely registered the TV, yet fragments of the news report slipped into her awareness. Something about an elusive killer and a rare plant toxin caught her ear. Words like "nervous system," "convulsions," and "paralysis" floated by, painting a chilling picture. A report of another victim—a man in his 40s, found dead last night. He was the fifth so far. The reporter warned the public to remain cautious.

The news continued in the background, but Vivienne was already lost in thought. 

What fascinated her most about her unique ability to enter someone else's body was that the mere act of concentration granted her access to the person's thoughts and physical form, no matter the time or place.

Satisfied with her next plan, she turned her attention to her long fingernails, inspecting them. A dark green and red stain clung to them. She glanced down at her muddy feet, a frown forming. "Where did this come from?" she wondered. She always secured her body in bed, safely away from harm, whenever she inhabited someone else’s.

***

Vivienne eased herself into the prosecutor's chair, mindful of the strain her borrowed body placed on its wooden frame. The unfamiliar heft of the lawyer’s bulk pressed against the armrests, her breath slightly labored as her stomach pushed against the desk’s edge. Her thick fingers sifted through the stacks of evidence, moving with surprising dexterity despite their girth. She meticulously examined each document, piecing together the puzzle of the poisoned victims at the town bar. The evidence was damning—witness testimonies placed the suspect at the scene, recounting interactions with the victims just moments before their fatal collapses. Toxicology reports sealed the case, revealing traces of a rare, deadly poison in every victim’s system.

Experts said this poison was no ordinary substance. It was a deadly concoction designed to swiftly incapacitate its victims. Upon ingestion, it targeted the nervous system, disrupting crucial neurotransmitters and unleashing a torrent of debilitating symptoms. Nausea, convulsions, and paralysis gripped the victims with alarming speed, leading to a swift and agonizing demise.

Her excitement was palpable. A real murder case!

She fixed her gaze on the papers in front of her, brimming with curiosity. One document, in particular, caught her attention. The sketch depicted a young woman with wavy, auburn hair that fell past her shoulders. She had a fair complexion, with freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her face was oval-shaped, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. The subject’s eyes were a distinct brown. Her lips were slightly parted, with a soft, natural contour, and the corners of her mouth gently turned downward. She had a delicate but defined jawline. Her overall appearance suggested someone in her early to mid-twenties. Notably, there was a visible beauty mark on her right cheek.

Vivienne’s breath hitched. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she lifted a trembling hand to her own cheek. The room tilted.

It was her.

She was the suspect.

Vivienne Frome. 

"No... no, this isn’t possible," Vivienne whispered, her fingers tracing the outline of her own face on the paper. Her breath hitched. "This is a mistake. This has to be a mistake." But the evidence was all there. The timeline. The poison. The sketch. Her stomach twisted. What had she done? This was her murder case! Her stomach clenched as the room blurred. A strange ringing filled her ears. No. No. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t have done this. She had been somewhere else—hadn’t she?

Heart racing, she dived into the evidence: the chilling CCTV footage, the damning toxicology report, and the mysterious substance found in her possession. It appeared that Vivienne had the ability to concoct powerful toxins from exotic plants, a memory lying dormant within her subconscious mind.

How could this be?

"No! No, no, no—nooo!" The cry tore from her throat, raw and splintered.

Panic set in as she scrutinized the dates of the crimes, and a shiver raced down her spine. The dates—God, the dates. Her fingers tightened around the paper as the horror sank deep into her bones.

She hadn’t been in her body on those nights!

Was her physical form going rogue while her spirit gallivanted elsewhere? Was someone possessing her too? Was this the dark side of her hidden talent? Was this the price she had to pay for her short-borrowed liberation and freedom? With her heart racing and pulse pounding, Vivienne Frome wished this was a dream. Her vision darkened at the edges. Her lungs clenched, the air too thick to breathe. “This is a nightmare! It has to be.”

Pain ripped through her body. Her chest tightened, her vision whirled. A violent tremor seized her limbs. The chair creaked as her body stiffened, then convulsed. Her hands clawed at the desk, scattering papers to the floor. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as her back arched, her borrowed body rejecting her presence.

And then—silence.

Her muscles gave way. She slumped forward, then slid off the chair. The floor was cold against her skin, but she barely felt it.

For what felt like an eternity, she lay there, gazing at the ceiling—eyes unfocused, lost in a haze—until, finally, her heavy lids closed…

***

Vivienne stirs awake, her eyes slowly adjusting to the soft glow of the desk lamp. She blinks a few times, still a bit groggy. Her head has been nestled on her arm, and as she sits up, a gentle tingle spreads through her neck and shoulders, loosening the stiffness. Outside, the countryside is peaceful, with the soothing patter of raindrops on the roof creating a calming, familiar melody. For a moment, she simply listens, her heartbeat steady, her breath slow. And then—an unmistakable spark.

She reaches for her journal. Her fingers tremble, not with fatigue, but with the urgency of unspoken words. The ink flows, and with it, so does she.

For days, she has been lost in yet another world. Her vivid imagination and beautiful words weave tales of vibrant scenes—the life she once lived, the life she is living now, and the life she dreams of living!



At this moment, Vivienne feels like a child again, brimming with endless possibilities. What if she is given the chance to explore every corner of her world, to connect deeply with the people she meets? Who might she become?

Vivienne continues to write, her mind fully immersed in the flow of her words. It is a breathtaking sensation—the liberation, the freedom that writing bestows upon her! Each word is a gateway, allowing her to escape the monotony of everyday life. With her pen and her thoughts, she explores the world in every conceivable way, unrestricted by reality. She soars through the sky like a bird, dives into the depths of the ocean like a fish, and gains access to a person's thoughts and body, no matter the time or place.

In her writing, there are no boundaries. Her entire existence dances at the tip of her pen, ready to unfold into limitless adventures…

...boundless and endless!