So I read through Libba's LJ answers, and I suppose I feel a tad better about Kartik's death. I mean, I don't feel good about it per se, but I've received a bit of closure from it. That isn't to say I'm still not miserable though; oh yes, I'm still quite. And what does that mean? It means you get another angsty Karma story. I apologize. Truly, I do.

In the blink of an eye, eight years have passed. Eight empty years in this new world where I had originally intended to live a new life as a newborn phoenix. I had wished for the cleansing of my past; to purge my mind of the boundless array of painful memories. But even I, the grand priestess, can not bid the memories farewell. Instead, they have continued to haunt me daily, clawing at my existence every waking –and unwaking second.

All these years, I have been facing my nightmares in a perpetual battle, hoping desperately for a way to façade my identity from myself. But the battle has long been lost, I'm afraid. I am defeated… drained to the last silver drop, for the only lining of my clouds now is the smoke from chimney tops. Black as remorse and death.

It has not always been like this. Oh no, I was once a lively soul, eager for the start of each new day. I hungered for the rising of the sun and moon. I thirsted for greater knowledge –to be seen as intelligent in this masculine-driven society. My journey to America had a purpose of establishing a new individuality and to make my mark in the world. It was the least I could do for him…

Yet even in America, the land of all dreams, social hierarchy existed. And despite the significant inheritance to my name, my reputation as a single, unmarried, and unknown lady earned me little standing. It was little better than the country I deserted, and I often wondered why I left in the first place.

I was crushed. My dreams began to scatter. And the lack of sociable company drove me to near insanity. At such a vulnerable state, the nightmares commenced. I was in the mercy of my past.

Then it came –my light. My hope. My knight in shining armour; or rather, in this case my knightess. Adelaide was her name, a woman of five years my senior. She was an honourable lady, also the owner of a cozy apartment in Binghamton, New York. Her husband worked as an editor of a publishing company in the state.

It was Adelaide who lifted me out of my pits of despair and helped me see my own potential. She invited me into her apartment and offered me a space of my own in her estate. She was like a mother to me. Like the mother I have always dreamed of since the death of my own. And under her guidance, I enrolled in Binghamton University as an English student.

I was not surprised to see that most of my classmates were male. They, however, did not share my lack of surprise, and made it their full-time duty to ridicule and denounce me. Several instances, I was at the height of my temptation to bestow some sort of nasty magic on the testosterone bunch, just to show them the extent of my power. But doing so would have exposed me; I would be found out. Moreover, it would have triggered the reforging of my past, and that was something I wasn't keen on rekindling. So, I ignored them. I ignored their threats to make my life "living hell", though I dare not say it to their face that they have not experience hell as I have. For once, I acted my part as a lady, and focused only on my responsibilities rather than meddling in other affairs.

As it turned out, my grades were quite satisfactory compared to theirs. This earned me both recognition and praise from the headmaster. According to him, I was an exemplary student, and would no doubt have a promising future as a writer. For once, I was the model student. And I was ecstatic.

They say that the rich often flock to the richer. In my case, this was certainly true. My exceptional grades made me rich, and soon, I was being befriended by all. Even the men, who previously hurled negative remarks at me on a daily basis, began to turn to me for companionship and advice. I was wooed with flowers, sweets, and invitations. And although I was fluttering like a butterfly emotionally, something in my head was persistently cautioning me about the new behaviour of those around me. It was a feeling I could easily identity, as it was very familiar, having felt it long ago back in Spence. I could not help but fear that they loved me for my power –my talents.

Slowly, I drifted away from my peers and sought comfort from books and literature instead. My skills in composition grew further; and at the end of my four year education, I graduated with honours of distinction. He would have been proud, I'm sure.

Adelaide could not be happier for my accomplishment, and immediately bade me write an article for her husband's company. Naturally, it was accepted. I was well on my way to establishing my career, my own path in life.

It was then that my life began to crumble apart. Adelaide, who was with child at the time, had an unfortunate stumble on the stairs. Her water broke early.

At the end, it was a miscarriage. Both mother and child were lost to the graves.

There was absolutely no time to brace for the second blow. My brother's usual flawless script was scratchy and shaky to the point of illegibility. I did not even need to pick through the entire letter to know what had happened. Father's consumption had finally claimed him.

It is now 1904, four years after my father's departure. I still live in Binghamton, in the apartment that hosts Adelaide's eternal spirit. I sit at my desk by the window and gaze out at the citizens on the streets. So many people without a single care, without a burden. They live according to society's rules. They live a sheltered envelope, only feeling what they should feel, not what they can feel. They do not know their limits, for they have not journeyed as far as I have to experience them. They are visionless people, blinded by their immersion in the material world. They do not know what it is like to see, for they have never seen, and they shall never see.

I wish I can gift them with sight; but to do so would also bring about their doom. For this gift of mine, it is both great and terrible. A gift… and a curse. I shall not curse my fellow Americans. They love their carefree nature. They are not yet ready to see.

I move my gaze back to the typewriter before me. The keys wait for my command. They need direction to function, just as society does. I offer my guidance, and the worlds blot onto the crisp white sheet in black. The ink is running thin; but it does not matter, for the story is almost at its end. My story is almost at its end.

Finally, my nimble fingers tap the keys in an ending stroke. This is my flourish, but there shall be no encore.

The inked page is set on the pile of papers at the side. These pages hold the history of my life. Of fears and desires, of friendships and jealousy, of love and hate, of life and death…

It contains the story of four girls, each damaged by a gift so great and terrible that it consumed them, cursing them to run loose from society's bondage. It is a story of the power of knowledge, and how it drove these girls to rebel at an attempt to find their own paths and identities. But most of all, the story is governed by the passion and longing of the one thing beyond each person's reach –destiny. Once discovered, it truly is a remarkable thing. It guides us to our true nature and helps us fulfill our sweet calling.

This is my calling. This is the mark I shall leave in the world –these pages of knowledge. And whoever reads it shall have a choice: to believe or not to believe in it. It is this choice that separates truth from wonder, and I have offered this choice to others.

I stand up from my seat and stride into the kitchen, my teacup in hand. The tea is still warm and barely touched. But alas, an ingredient is amiss.

In the kitchen, I search under the sink for the brown bottle. It is there, half empty from years of use against the pesky rodents that infest the grounds. I clutch it tightly and bring it to the counter where the cup is set. Time seems to stop as I fill the cup to the rim then stir the mixture. The liquid soon becomes one, and once satisfied, I carry it with me to my bedroom.

My breathing quickens as the moment draws ever nearer to my nocturnal avenue. I sit in the centre of my bed and relieve myself of my corset and the pins that adorn my fiery tresses. They are the last items that still constrain my being. And as my bosom swells with relief and my hair tumbles down in a scorching mane, I am content... for I shall leave freely.

A single tear rolls down my cheek. Inevitability awaits. In one swift motion, the cup is at my lips and the poison down my throat. I cough and sputter. My body gags in refusal and protest, but I force it down.

The effects are immediate. The labels on the bottle live true to their word. My lungs feel ready to burst, and this coaxes me to lie down. I curl into a ball, now letting the tears flow freely.

I have always wondered what one thinks about when dying. Now I know. My mind swims through a slideshow of memories. The spices of India… my father's warm chuckles… Ann's voice… Felicity's naked skin… Miss McCleethy's unclosed eyes… the lips of a certain Gypsy…

I think of him last. He was the first to believe in me. Believing in me was also the last thing he did. His brother once told him "you will be the death of her", but how ironic it had turned out for him to leave first. Well perhaps, it has now come to the day that karma unleashes her merciless fury on us, and I do not resent it at all.

And as if beckoned, his face appears in my mind. He is smiling as he always does. His hair is as unkempt as ever. Funny how in these last few seconds, he is what I think of. Suddenly, death does not scare me anymore.

In one final breath, I utter the word that has been hidden under years of sorrow, "Kartik…"

And just like that, the magic is gone.

Or is it?

So what do you think?

Writing this was an emotional rollercoaster for me. My heart actually sped up and slowed down at the critical moments just as Gemma's would have. Anyway, I intend to end with another chapter… but it depends on how motivated I am.