She did it again. Once things got out of hand, she chose to freeze because her poor mind couldn't handle the reality. Why couldn't she pull herself together and demand an answer for once?

And being only a spectator, not able to decide or do anything, for far too long had me flip my lid. So, here I am. As much as I want to see Gretta grow up and overcome her weakness, I need to step up at some point, otherwise, she will be stuck in the same darn situation. Knowing her, she would probably not allow me to take control though, but then it's a good thing that she doesn't know me. She doesn't know my existence. Not that she needs to, nor that I want her to...just yet.

I never asked to be born, especially under this unusual arrangement. Sharing a body isn't a privilege everyone gets; if I can even call it that. But what can I do? One doesn't get to choose how they are brought into this world. Life chooses them, just like how it chooses the color of their skin, or their hair, or their eyes, and maybe their personality, as well as the special talents they will possess once they're born. Otherwise, every girl would want to have a pretty face, bright brain, strong will, and phenomenal voice, like Cindy Lauper.

Yes. Who doesn't want to be Cindy at the moment? She is the inspiration of young women nowadays. Inspiration for freedom and for being who they are; hell yeah, feminism rules. No wonder her posters are now occupying almost every young woman's bedroom across the globe, even Lola's room; sadly, not her step-sister's dull bedroom.

A burst of laughter from afar urges me to open my eyes, and I'm welcomed by a dim room with a beaming bedside lamp as the only source of light. The stars painted on the ceiling confirms that I'm in Gretta's room, lying on her bed. From my peripheral, a shadow reflected on the wall moves briskly, and in the next second, Hedy's face comes into the view, her big brown eyes examining me intently.

"Gretta, you're awake. How are you feeling?" She scoots closer to pick up a glass of water from the nightstand. A vanilla scent mixed with garlic smell hits my nostrils. I always wonder why she would wear fragrances for a kitchen job. Who is she trying to attract with it? The shrimps? Or the skewed chicken? Well, in her late twenties like now, she sure has a beau out there, where she can make better use of her perfume.

Slowly, I prop myself up to sit upright and glance around. It's still dark outside and I'm still wearing the same white dress I despise with a burning passion. Gretta loves to wear this hideous potato sack when we have company for dinner. Her severe lack of taste will be the death of me one day.

"I'm feeling fine," I say after drinking almost everything from the glass. I'm thirstier than I thought I was. "Everyone, I mean my aunt and my cousin, are still downstairs?" I need to make sure that I just woke up in the same evening.

"Yes. But the dinner is over. I can bring in your dinner tray if you wish."

"No. Thank you, Hedy. I think I will just stay here for a while and see if I get hungry later," I say while planning my escape in my head already. "And please, I don't want to be bothered tonight. Tell them I'm sleeping now."

Hedy frowns a bit, probably surprised by my bluntness. Gretta wouldn't push people away like this. "Of course. I will be in the kitchen if you need something to eat later." With that, she stands up and glances around briefly before pivoting on her heels and heading to the door.

A bark of laughter echoes once more from the living room downstairs, but it soon dies down, replaced by murmurs and a few random piano keys clinking in between. Once the song "Do That to Me One More Time" by Captain & Tenille is played lousily, I know right away it's Lola who is sitting behind the instrument. Showtime, of course. Or show-off time.

The memory of what happened in the dining room a while ago rushes back into my mind. The confusion, the horror, the catastrophe, and the mixed gazes from everyone in the room when Gretta started to become nervous. They seemed annoyed, pitiful, and intrigued, but nowhere concerned about her. Everyone must think she's crazy, but they know little to nothing about her. Hell, even Gretta doesn't have any idea about what is going on with her, or with people around her, including that woman in the woods.

There must be a rational explanation for how that person got hurt —probably killed— a few hours earlier, and then showed up at the family dinner with no trace of evidence from the previous occurrence. There has to be a missing link that connects the dots. I saw what Gretta witnessed this afternoon, and as pathetic as she can be, she's not delusional. And I'm here to find the answer to this.

The song stops abruptly, pulling me out of my jabbering mind. After murmurs of request from the audience, the next song by Air Supply fills the air, still as lousily played as the previous one. Out-of-tune voices follow, singing"All out love", swallowing the piano sound. I don't know what I prefer now, the piano play or the voices? Well, none of them, because right now, I want to get my ass out of here.

After climbing out of bed, I push the bedroom window open before carefully plopping on its sill and bringing my legs to the other side of the wall. I glance at the protruding bald limb of an oak tree in front of me —my usual escape— and calculate my next move. They cut it shorter last week after Patricia, Lola's mother, gushed over the poor tree, saying that the branches could grow into Gretta's bedroom and create problems. Plus, it would potentially block the sun; the sun that dear Gretta must have every day to keep the serotonin level in her brain. What bullshit.

She needs this limb. I need this limb. We need the darn limb.

Feeling the summer breeze caress my face, I close my eyes and inhale the evening air. The rattling sound of the leaves dancing in the wind eases the disastrous chorus from the living room. Just what I need, like my need to get out of this room. I must find a way.

It's when I smell something else in the air; the smell that raises my appetite.

"I was hoping you would come out here. But maybe the door is a safer choice for now," says a masculine voice.

I glance down at the source of the sound. Between my dangling bare feet, a few meters below me, Damien is looking up at me with the usual smirk on the corners of his lips. He leans against a concrete pole on the back porch, one hand in his pocket and a cigarette between his fingers.

Cigarettes. More tempting than food.

"Shouldn't you be inside, listening to your girlfriend performing and showering her with attention?" I say.

"She's got enough attention." His smirk is now gone, replaced by an anticipation look. "How are you?"

"Fine. I'm glad I could escape the dinner."

Damien clicks his tongue. "I knew you were faking it. Naughty, naughty Gretta. You should go for a movie audition, you know. Your acting is flawless."

I shrug and quietly chuckle. "I shall try that if I fail my degree."

"I will need to go back inside in five minutes or so. Will you come down, please?" he says. He takes a drag on his cigarette while keeping his gaze on me. In the next seconds, a few smoke rings roll out of his mouth before they grow thinner and fade into the night.

When I revert my gaze to him, our eyes meet, waking up something primal in my guts. Boy, is he gorgeous! I always wonder how it feels to be held by those strong hands, to be pressed against his toned chest, and to brush my lips against his. Too bad, Gretta doesn't fancy him as much, and I still don't know how to deal with her being such a prude. Should I play by her rules? Or should I push it a bit more?

But then, what damage would five minutes bring? And, she won't remember any of these, will she?

"Alright," I say.