V

Where is the place I can call my own?

"CHARI, WAKE UP, dear. Breakfast is ready."

The voice floating from downstairs is sweet, honeyed. I hide under the covers of the duvet for a few more seconds when it hits me-and I jerk awake.

What?

My mind freezes as I take a look at my surroundings. Dark blue walls. A keyboard at the far corner. Bookshelves of Young Adult novels filled with books.

I'm back at home. But how? I remember jumping, eager to end it all. How am I here? Was it a dream?

Wait-bookshelves of novels?

Realizing something is amiss, I jump out of the bed to scan my surroundings. It's my room but it doesn't feel like mine. I don't have bookshelves in my room because my parents threw away all of my novels when I was a kid.

Why do I have them now?

To make things worse, as soon as I make my way to the dining table, my mother and father are waiting for me with a smile. Something they never did before because we never ate breakfast together. They were just that busy. What the hell is going on?

"Good morning, sweetie. Eat up. It's your big day today."

I rake my eyes across the table where a full, hearty meal is prepared. Pancakes, omelettes, bacon, and sausages fill the plates.

Confusion fogs up my mind as I take a seat and try to figure out what's going on. My mother never cooks, not for breakfast or for any occasions, because she doesn't know how.

"What big day?" I reply.

"Your book launch, darling. Have you forgotten?"

"What book launch?"

Mom blinks. "I thought you'll be launching High Courts today? Sweetie, are you okay?"

"I-what?"

A hand tentatively flies to her lips as her brows furrow in thought. "Oh, it must not be today, then? I thought it was. I specifically recorded it in my calendar as soon as your publisher called us," she says in wonder as she checks her phone.

It feels wrong. There's a change in the air that wasn't there before. I feel like I'm still in a dream. Everything is bright. Pastel curtains, pastel sofas, pastel flowers. Our house is never this bright. It's pure monochromatic, our furniture mostly in the stubborn shades of black and grey.

"What publisher did you say I'm with?"

"Mythos Media. Is everything okay?" she asks in concern, but my mind is flying miles per second.

"I'm okay. Can you excuse me for a second?"

Before they can respond, I run back to my room and fire up my laptop to search for Mythos Media. Several articles, photos, and blogs about the publishing house pull up, and sure enough, I confirm Mom's telling the truth. According to the main website, I'm an exclusive author who has published a series with them before.

When I check my email, there's a thread for High Courts, and I'm bewildered to read the blurb on the back.

I recognize this plot. It's one of my first stories I abandoned when my parents won against me and writing became too much of a burden.

Are they telling me I completed it?

And that I have turned it into a book?

Ridiculous. This must be a dream.

A derisive laugh bubbles up in my lips.

Yeah, only in my wildest dreams. My parents being supportive? My home looking as warm as it does? My entire dream laid out in front of me in the shape of a book?

Yeah. It must be one of those dreams you see before you die.

The world outside, as I've come to know much later, is even more ridiculous than my home. There's no sense of currency here. When I asked my mother for pocket money, she looked at me like I'd grown another head. Like the idea's preposterous and unthinkable. Her reaction confused me, but I understood later on.

Once, I went to the supermarket to watch and observe the people, and that was how I discovered that everyone here sings, draws, or tells stories in order to get around. No one uses money. It's simply not a concept here.

It doesn't make sense and I'm even more positive now that I'm in a dream. If not, then I'm sure that I'm in a coma state.

Out of desperation to get away, I tried to find a way out. Tried to wake myself up. I pinched myself, I cut my skin, I even tried to sleep all day, hoping that when I wake up, it's all over.

But it's been days since I first tried and I'm becoming more certain that I'm stuck here. Trapped. Did I really slip into coma when I jumped to my death?

It seems highly likely. It's the only plausible answer. The fall has probably put me in a long deep sleep infused with dreams-or nightmares, depending on how you see it. So how do I get out?

Feeling stuffed and hopeless, I go out again to try and make more sense of where I am. Seeing the smiles on everyone's faces, hearing the songs they sing in order to purchase what they want, I'm getting even more puzzled.

The system here is so wrong, so different. Everything is so fake. But why do I find myself smiling back?

Why are their songs stuck in my head?

Now, I'm walking down the streets, watching in confusion how people line up outside the bookstores to buy my books. Apparently, here, I'm a big shot writer who writes Young Adult fantasy stories and mentor young aspiring writers.

Everything I wanted to become.

Everything I could not become.

"Hello."

A shape of a huge grey wolf appears in the air, making me stop in my tracks.

My eyes pop out as I stare straight into the golden slits of its eyes. The red diamond on its forehead is glowing, almost alive.

"Hello," it repeats.

Fright and panic explode in my chest like a bomb and makes my heart pound in my ears. With a halted breath, I turn and run away, but it appears again at the end of the street, stopping me effectively. The shout dies in my throat.

"Now, now. There is no need to be afraid," it says without opening its mouth.

I had reservations before, but now I'm a hundred percent convinced that this is a dream. A talking, flying wolf?

"What in the world are you? What the fuck do you want?" I ask, high-pitched.

All at once, the world around us stops like a heart caught in mid beat. I hold my breath, feeling the panic rise in my chest.

"Hello, Charity. It's good to finally meet you. Now, what am I, you ask? You do not know me in this form but you know who I am as I go by many names in your previous life." I didn't know it was possible, but the Wolf tilts its head and smiles. "But I guess, in this life, you can simply call me Kalis. I am the guardian of this world."

Guardian? What?

"Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Like I'm caught in a trance, I follow as the Wolf takes to the street like it's having a Sunday morning stroll. Everyone around us is frozen, stuck in the middle of what they're doing, as if they're mere sculptures on display at a gallery.

"Where am I? What is this place?" I breathe out as I walk past a teen girl who seems to be running after her dog.

"Ah, the big guns. Never one for small talks, aren't you?" the Wolf says, his eyes forward, not once straying. "This is a world born out of your wish. The well heard your deepest desire and so it gave you another chance at life where all of your dreams are within your grasp. A world specifically created according to your letter. You must have seen the differences by now. You have the choice if you will stay or if you will go."

My throat suddenly feels dry. "So this is a fake world?"

The Wolf pauses briefly to look at me. "Who is to say what's real?"

That doesn't answer my question.

I frown, frustrated at the lack of forthcoming answers. "If I want to go back, how do I do it?"

"Do you want to go back?"

"I-" I stop. The Wolf smiles knowingly. Damn. He caught me. "What if I do?" I say, tipping my chin up in fake confidence.

"I can't tell you how to leave. I am only here to serve as a guide. You came here on your own, you must leave on your own. That is the rule of this world."

We reach the end of the street and then the Wolf disappears, leaving me in a state of disarray, my thoughts frazzled and in a state of jumble.

In a snap, the world returns to life, and the life of the city resumes once again as songs upon songs rise in the air and laughter and sweet voices fill every corner.

It displaces me how different the city I've known all my life feels to me now. It's strange, but what's stranger is I'm not even sure if I really hate it.

I'm positive that I died and this is the afterlife. Why else would everything feel so real yet all so wrong?

So wrongfully right?

As I go home that night, to a home filling with freshly-cooked dinner and the warm brew of tea, a dangerous, fickle idea takes root in my head.

I watch my parents laugh and play with each other, watch how they shower each other with affections and jokes all throughout dinner. I watch as they prepare for a sweet movie night, pulling me along onto the sofa where I'm smacked in the middle and both of them sit closely beside me, almost affectionately.

Then I realize it, realize with a gut-wrenching pain that had me choking and I feel like crying. This life might not be so bad.

No, it's far from bad. It's perfect. It's everything I ever wanted.

I can stay here. I've always wanted to fly away and now I have exactly what I wanted.

A world of my own.

Far away from my problems.

A world crafted and fashioned after my desires.

Here, I can be whatever I want to be.

I'm dead anyway. What's there to lose?