Life was so much easier twelve hours ago.

At least I wasn't freezing. Now the cold sweeps through my bones, paralyzing me. I can't move a muscle, not even my eyelids, so all I have is cold and darkness.

But why? As much as I try, I can't remember. Maybe I've actually fulfilled my life-long ambition of hiking up Mount Everest, and once I'd reached the summit, because there's no way I didn't reach it, I froze into a fabulous glacier.

And now, every time a tourist makes it up there, they will see the gorgeous woman nature wanted to preserve, and meditate on the futility of life. #naturerulesusall. No one lives forever and not many are lucky enough to be frozen in their perfect youthful state for everyone else to admire.

But that can't be it. If I did go up Mount Everest and froze there, I would be dead. Realistically speaking. So I wouldn't be able to think about dying. And if I were a ghost, I most certainly wouldn't be cold. Though wouldn't it be cool to be a ghost and have a torrid love affair with a man who has lost all hope? But no, something else is up and I need to backtrack and figure out what.

Unfortunately, the darkness and cold are not letting me think straight. My thoughts are jumbled and I can't even come up with an appropriate hashtag for this dire situation. The only thing that comes to mind is my favorite hashtag.

As a professional influencer with over a million followers, do you know what that is?

There are a lot of good ones. #girlswhotravel #soblessed #mindfulness #healthyliving.

But my favorite one has always been #aboutlastnight. It describes the perfect evening, because there's no way anyone uses that tag unless their evening was out of this world.

And, not to brag, because I'm humble by nature, but the last evening I remember was the most exciting anyone could ever experience.

For one thing, I managed to slip into that Ralph Lauren burgundy dress without difficulties when only last week I was sure I'd have to eat air for a month to do the zipper half-way up.

Then, it took only one go-through with the curling iron to produce the perfect chocolate curls. I looked so stylish and vintage. A real #twentiesqueen. And my make up! I didn't have to dab at one single line because everything just came out perfectly. My eyeshadow was so on point that my usual grey eyes actually looked blue.

On my way out, I managed the perfect hallway mirror selfie, my leg half off the floor to show off my silver pumps. #whosreadytoparty? That photo alone got me 50k likes before the girls and I hit the first bar. I was so ready for an epic night out on the town.

And it so was! So epic that we didn't have to pay for one single drink, and by the time we reached the second bar, I met the man of my dreams.

Tall, broad, with a jawline to die for, covered by the perfect amount of stubble. His eyes the deepest blue of the Caribbean Sea, his hair golden like the sand. And he wore a grey three-piece suit! It looked so good on him, stretching over those glorious muscles.

I could tell he liked to work out, which is very important to me because I'm all about healthy living and being honest about your own body. That's the reason I post swimsuit pics on my Instagram. People need to see that with a little effort, anyone can look perfect.

"Let me introduce myself, lovely lady," he said to me, his eyes sparkling like sapphires. "I am Damian Bradely, and I'd love to know more about you."

"Carolyn Danes," I whispered, my voice sultry and mysterious. I totally nailed the introduction, if I do say so myself.

We spent the rest of the evening at the bar, sipping martinis and laughing at random jokes.

He was a successful business man who traveled a lot. I was an important influencer who helped people better themselves. We were a match made in heaven. So it was only natural for my girls to move on to the next bar, for me to invite him home, for me to climb inside a cab with him.

His cologne was so powerful, so manly, I think I melted a little inside. We kissed in the cab, slow and tender at first, then wild and all-consuming. By God, he was a lovely kisser, and I do have some experience in that area.

Well, not exactly a lot since I'm no hussy, but I have kissed my share of guys. Damian is top three material, and I would definitely recommend him to a friend.

Doesn't everything I've said so far sound perfect? If only I didn't black out right after...

Now I'm freezing my toned ass off in darkness and my head is throbbing something vicious. My body feels so heavy. I can't move it.

Oh, God! I hope the cab wasn't involved in an accident and I've slipped into a coma and the idiots at the hospital pumped me full of sugar water and now I'm a bloated mess! I don't want to be an ugly corpse! And I definitely don't do sugar.

I need to move, I need to get out of here! But my eyelids stay shut and I can't wiggle my toes, move my knees, my hips. I'm really starting to lose my optimism here. What if I'm actually sedated, but it hasn't worked and they're about to start operating on me and I'll feel everything?

Why can't I scream? I have such a dramatic scream, fit for the best of horror movies. I know because a producer once told me that. But now all I can do is push my fingers into whatever I'm laying on and...

Oh, wait, I can feel my fingers. And apparently I'm on something cold and hard which is most definitely not a hospital bed unless I ended up in some third world hospital that thinks wooden planks are acceptable.

Exactly how wild was my night?

My eyelids start to itch so I frown. Yes, my face muscles are still responsive which means I should be able to... I open my eyes and I'm instantly blinded by whiteness. It burns my retinas and makes me scream.

It only lasts a second before I gag. My voice. What happened to my beautiful voice? I sound like a damn donkey! I raise my hands to touch my neck, but freeze with them halfway to my face. What the hell happened to my slender fingers? I have disgusting man hands with hairs everywhere!

Despite it being an awfully aggravating sound, I start screaming again. It's rough and low pitched and guttural, like I'm suddenly some sort of growling animal. But it's not worse than my hands, my arms. There's hair everywhere!

Like I'm a spring, I jump into a sitting position and stare at my legs. I'm wearing grey pants and have huge feet! I scream louder, but they're not going away. Not the pants, not the clown feet, not the thick, blond hair on my arms.

What have they done to me? What is going on? Who would be so cruel as to do something so devious to a lady? A beautiful, delicate woman trying to make the world a better place.

I try to focus on something else, like the fluorescent light or the metal table under me, but I can't really see past those awful feet. I scream louder, hoping practice would make it sound the way it should. That my feet would shrink in fear and my pants would disappear in favor of the lovely Ralph Lauren burgundy dress. It just makes my throat raw.

No, this couldn't be happening, I can't have... Something twitches in my pants and the panic has me falling over.

I blissfully hit my head against something hard and the nightmare goes away.

Except it's a second later and I open my eyes again. My head swims like I've had too much to drink. I probably have. I should know better than to cross my three martinis limit. How many did I have with Damian anyway? Five? Seven?

Definitely seven, because that dream was all sorts of messed up. How could I even imagine that I could turn into a man? In fact, there I am, on the floor, in my beautiful dress, my pumps still on, my legs as lean and as hairless as they should be. I don't look very comfortable though, with one leg tucked underneath me and my head resting on one stretched out arm.

But I do look fabulous. My hair's still in bouncy curls and my makeup really has pulled through. The cold in the room might have helped with that.

Wait one second. If I'm there, then...

I look at my hands and they're still big and manly. Needless to say, another round of hoarse, donkey-like screaming ensues. It doesn't make the image of my body go away.

I'm still there, lying on the floor, not getting up at the horrible, horrible sound. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me?

I put my hands on my face and it's broad and filled with more hair. I'm a man! I'm a fricking fracking man and my beautiful, fabulous body is over there, empty and lifeless and all I want is to knock myself out again on this... I turn around and spot a nightstand right behind me. There's something half-hanging from it which looks an awful lot like an envelope.

Hoping to be part of some messed up game show, I take it and see my name on it. Well, this is promising.

It's sealed, so I have to use my clumsy man hands to open it up and pry the letter out of it. The writing is loopy and I curse the man who invented cursive before I focus on the content.

Dear Carolyn,

The body you are wearing used to be mine. I'm writing this letter to you for your survival. The rest is... complicated.

Complicated? The rest is complicated? What in a bejesus is more complicated than waking up in someone else's body with yours just lying there?

His hand writing is abysmal. A new round of powerful screaming is in order.

👸👸👸

I will admit that I had too much fun with this. I actually wanted to make chapter one the entire 2k words needed for the first round of ONC, but I'll be writing chapter two before the deadline and it felt more fun to leave it here.

I hope you enjoyed.

Also, don't forget to let me know if you're also participating in ONC so I can support you back.

Much love ❤

Word count: 1747