Parallel Stories

Trigger warnings: sexual and physical abuse/violence, suicidal thoughts/themes

In a small bookstore filled to the brim with stories and adventures, a woman sat at the back in a beanbag. She was there every day after work, around 4:40 give or take a few minutes, head buried in whatever she had snatched from the shelves. 

It was a quiet bookstore tucked away at the end of a cobbled street. All the big shops and commercial buildings were located just before that dead-end, so the people who stepped into the bookstore, ‘A Book a Day,’ went there purposefully. The door chirped a welcome to anyone who ventured in, sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows in a kaleidoscope of colors. 

It was decorated in warm tones, with soft forest green paint splashed on the walls and each bookshelf made from dark walnut wood. Intricate gold designs swirled throughout the green paint, giving the store a whimsical, almost childlike feel. Beanbags and other cushioned furniture were scattered throughout, creating a resting place for weary bodies but active minds. On the wooden floorboards, rugs with rich teal and soft cream coloring decorated the ground, birds hopping on vines and branches from the center. 

It was warm. It was safe. It was home. 

Madeline Fies huddled deeper into the beanbag her body was sinking into, a book placed on the table to the right. Every day after work, she came to this little bookstore, tucked away from all the hustle and bustle of the real world. It was an escape for her, a way to escape from a strained relationship with her husband and a life she often felt she wasn't living anymore.

When they had first met because her father introduced them, it had the type of relationship all those love stories she read talked about. Soon, loving words of affirmation turned into shouting and looks of disappointment, just like her father would give her when she said something he considered feeble or ‘womanly.’ 

Romantic dinners were replaced with long nights alone, sitting at a table for one, while her husband went to work dinners with his friends. Madeline would spend those hours praying that he did not decide to drink. Hoping that when he walked in the door, he wouldn't go straight to the bedroom, grab her with his disgusting hands, rank breathe, causing the hair on her neck to stand up.

They always say you marry a man like your father, and for once in her life, she wished she had a reason to leave—to be a better woman—not to let another man walk all over her because they felt like they had a right to.

They wanted her to be stronger. But often, the energy she had left after work was just enough to close her eyes and open them again the next day.

This place was a way for her to escape a life she often felt she was living for someone else as they pulled her in the direction they wanted her to go, like a marionette. 

The bookstore helped her forget and dive into worlds so different from what she lived in, meeting people and things that existed in only the author's mind. For a few hours, she could escape from her husband, from her father, from her life in the words sitting in front of her. 

What was she to do? Being trapped in a loveless, abusive marriage with no support from family meant all she had was herself. She was stuck, chained down to a reality that decided this was the life she was born in.

She signed, crawling out of the hole she was stuck in. The book on the table returned to the shelf from which she had grabbed it. Hands traced the spines of the books around it, fingernails caressing indented titles. 

Haven’t read it. Read it but hated it. Loved it. Never heard of it.

… But this one was familiar. Her hands stopped on a book, the glossy cover holding a title and author's name. Madeline carefully slid it out of its home, flipping it around a few times in her hands.

“Have we met before?” she whispered, opening the book. Her eyes focused on the first few words, her body falling back into the beanbag. 

And the world changed.

Magdalene Fiees knew her father would be disappointed. Still, as she sat before the mirror in her gilded tower, she was finally ready to leave. The mirror reflected a fractured version of herself, one who dressed up as a doll and let others control what she said. They monitored what she ate. They only allowed her to talk to certain people. 

That was not Magdalene. That was not who she was, but who she was forced to be by the people surrounding her and corralling her like an animal intent on escaping. But, as they seemed to have forgotten, a cornered animal was dangerous and desperate. They had nothing left to lose, nothing left to protect but themselves. 

She looked in the mirror, focusing on the golden crown pinned to her head, weighing it down. It simmered in the light of the candles, almost blinding in its brilliance. The jewels had been imported from a few ports to the south of the kingdom, worth more money than most poor farmers made in their lifetime. There was disgust in their eyes when they came to beg for another scrap, just some coin to feed their family, while she sat above them on a pedestal made from their sweat and blood.

Some might see it as a symbol of leadership, of power, but it was more like a leash that tugged Magdalene around wherever the holder wanted. She reached up, grabbed the crown, and looked at it through tired eyes. 

It seemed even prettier up close, just as fragile as any jewelry owned by the nobility. So easily broken, she mused. What power does a broken trinket hold?

With a quick twist of her hands, the crown snapped in two with little difficulty. It sat in the palm of her hands, suddenly lifeless and dull. The jewels turned dull and gray, a lifetime of sacrifice purchasing this monster in her hands.

The shuffling of the guard's footsteps outside the door, armor clanking with each fidget, broke her out of the staring contest with the broken crown. Magdalene clenched her fingers tight around the two pieces, cutting into her skin, before throwing them with all her strength towards the open balcony. It was like some great force; the part of her raised by her mother had just a little more energy left to be defiant.

One soared straight through the window, but the other hit the pane with a smack before bouncing on the floor a few times. Jewels scattered in different directions, vanishing under the bed in the middle of the room and towards the brick walls holding this jail up. The clang of armor sounded outside before a knock was heard on the heavy wood door.

“Princess,” the deep baritone voice of a guard said. “Is everything alright?”

Magdalene cleared her throat, an almost nervous feeling in her stomach. She felt nauseous like she could throw up the mead and bread from the night's dinner. In a few short hours, her father, the king, would help escort her down the dinner hall. He would hand her off to the man she was being forced to marry, almost twenty years older than her, someone she had never met before but had somehow bought the king's approval.

After they swore the marriage vows, everyone from the ceremony would follow them to the marriage bed and watch as it was consummated. The jeers and cheers of the councilmen as the dress was ripped off her body, the smell of mead on the breath of the man in front of her. All eyes were on the bed as she was held down, forced to let someone she didn't know touch her, which made the nauseous feeling get worse. Before she could stop it, she dry heaved onto the woven carpet underneath her, spit and vomit trickling out the corners of her mouth. A few lines of drool trickled down, and another heave came out of her body.

She slid off the chair, carefully avoiding the vomit, breaths coming out faster and faster. The room seemed to get hotter with each gasp, and another knocking sound was heard on the door. It echoed in the stone room, bouncing off the walls and outside the balcony. 

“Princess,” the guard repeated. “If you do not answer, we will break the door down.”

“I’m…I’m fine.” There was a few seconds pause after she spoke, and Magdalene could almost feel the uncertainty through the door. Nothing more was said, but the clink of armor was heard again as the guard moved back to his post. 

She was left alone with her thoughts again. 

There was no other choice. It was evident now, even after begging the king on her hands and knees. He was always meant to be a ruler, leading the kingdom to prosperity as they won battles left and right. Her father was strong and dependable, but being a good leader does not make you a good father.

‘Be strong enough to be gentle,’ her mother would scold him. Her father had changed after her mother had died in childbirth, trying to push her brother out into a world that wanted him more than the daughter already born. Magdalene had sat outside the birthing room for hours, listening to her mother scream in pain as people rushed in and out, bringing out bloody water and bandages. 

She got up from the floor, taking another glance in the mirror. Getting close enough to stare directly into her eyes, the princess smiled.

“Have we met before?” she breathed, the mirror fogging. A twisted facade of her smile appeared, warped and destroyed. 

The handle to the door juggled as the guards tried to come in, to take her to her future, to her doom. There were shouts when it would not open immediately, the sound of feet pounding on the brick, and more conversations before one last tug at the door. The door shook as they started throwing their bodies against it, trying to break it down. 

In between each heave at the door, Magdalene could hear someone speaking.

“Magdalene,” a voice spoke. “You are making this more difficult than it needs to be. Stop being a child.”

Her father, she thought to herself. A man who was supposed to protect her, ready to let her be destroyed.

She took one last look at her reflection before marching to the window. The night outside was surprisingly quiet, even as she watched the servants coming in and out of the castle, bringing in chairs and barrels of mead. The stars were incredibly bright, auspicious in their appearance, and as if they were aware of what would happen.

It was nice to look at the old oak tree in the courtyard's center. Memories of her mother flooded in as a weird sense of calm took over. They would spend hours sitting against the trunk, pointing towards the sky as they looked for images in the clouds. 

‘If she just reached out a little further,’ her mother used to say. ‘She could reach the stars.’

The princess walked out on the balcony, but Magdalene was the one who took the last few steps to the railing, climbing onto it until she was balanced at the top. The light chill breeze made the cotton of the dress she had on bellow out, almost like enormous wings about to take flight. She glanced down, eyes catching sight of the sparkling piece of the crown and the shocked face of the gardener before she turned around so her back was to the ground. Just as the door burst open, she stepped off the balcony and fell. A shout was heard as she neared the end of the fall, free for the first time she could remember, and Magdalene looked towards the sky with a smile.

…BANG!

A loud noise woke Madeline from her deep sleep, the book slipping from her hands and falling to the floor. She jerked up, heart beating and face flushed. It had been an hour or so since she had fallen asleep, as evident by how dark the bookstore was getting. The pitter-patter of rain sounded from the roof as she tried to calm her pulse down, breathing rapidly through her mouth. It felt like she had been there - that it had been her.

Madeline leaned down to pick up the fallen book, shaking fingers tracing the gold lettering on the front. Tingles crept up from her fingers and followed down her body as she tried to process everything. 

Parallel Lives. 

She opened the book again, eyes tracing words on the pages.

“Have we met before?” she whispered, hugging the book to her chest. There was no response, but some part of her seemed to wake up from a long-dormant sleep, stretching and becoming alert. Becoming aware. Becoming conscious. 

Madeline…no, Magdalene, she corrected herself, looked around at the room she appeared in and smiled.

She was free.