Hanna will never forget it-the sight of Sara, face wet with tears and caked with grime. The sound of Sarah, whispering yet more resolute than anyone should be, "I confess."
The feeling of her energy, her faith, her smile; everything leaving her, because this cannot be the end, this cannot be their end, but then Sara's saying those dreadful two words again-"I confess"-and the world moves again. Everyone screams, everyone riots, everyone's consumed with gleeful destruction.
All the while, Sara keeps staring at Hanna.
And for the briefest of moments, Sara's (bloodied, bruised) lips curl into a smile. It's a smile of promise. It's a smile of hope.
No. Hanna will never forget it.
Hanna caresses Sara's jaw, her fingers trailing down to the side of her neck.
Sara should stir. Hum. Tell Hanna something along the lines of, "Oh, how gentle you are." Something that'll make Hanna's cheeks heat up. Make her stomach heat up too.
Instead, Sara is still. Lifeless.
Hanna and her friends bury Sara, and Hanna leaves her flower crown on Sara's head. It's a goodbye, she tells herself. It's my wish for her to rest in peace.
Instead, it is as hollow as the inside of her chest.
Hanna's friends leave, but Hanna stays. Kneeling. Fisting her hands into the dirt. Shoulders shaking. She wishes to dig the grave back up. To find that damned sorcerous book that caused their lives to crumble and summon Sara's eyes to open, summon her lungs to inhale. Summon Sara's body to become Sara once more.
Instead, she cries. She cries like she's never cried before. She cries harder than the way Sara's own father cried when Sara was hung.
Sara was hung. God, Sara was hung. For a wickedness that she did not commit. And now, the true evildoer is out there, somewhere. And whoever they are, they've gotten away with it.
Hanna should scream in outrage. Twist her face into a snarl. Let cool rage seep into her bones. Swear to find the true witch.
That's what Sara would've done.
But Hanna is not Sara. She has never been. So, instead, she presses her hands to her face as her sobs die down. Because they will never hold hands again, in the sun-basked day or in the secretive night.
Hanna's life goes on. People move on.
Hanna refuses to marry.
"You must," her mother tells her, hissing and red-faced. "It is your womanly duty!"
"My heart belongs to Sara Fier only," Hanna replies.
It earns her a slap to the face which throbs for the whole day.
Hanna regrets nothing.
Hanna fades away wrinkle by wrinkle. Her mother is gone. Her friends are too. She's the last one alive.
And one day, Hanna wakes up knowing she will not be alive for long.
On her last day, she walks up to Sara's grave. Kneels down, her dress spreading around her frail body. Slides down her shaking hand over the reddened dirt. Closes her exhausted eyes.
Sees Sara's smile again. The one promising hope.
"I wish you'd never given me that smile," she murmurs, as a stray tear falls down to her cheek, dropping to where Sara lays. "I wish I'd never met you. Feeling nothing is better than feeling too much."
She doesn't mean that, of course. Not a day goes by where she regrets basking in the fierceness of Sara Fier.
And it's quite alright. Either Sara can't hear her, or, if she can, she knows Hanna doesn't mean it.
Hanna closes her eyes, and her heart stops.
Then, Hanna opens her eyes, and her heart starts.
Only, she's not Hanna-not really. Her name is different, so is her face. So is her mother. So is her father. So are her friends.
And yet there's something familiar. About her life. About everything.
Her mother still is disdained by the thought of a woman courting another woman. Her father, a good man who dies too quickly. Even her friends-her closest, most trusted friends-behave similarly.
The murders are also familiar.
Even when no one's lived through it, they know enough of history to make the connection. A false connection. "The curse of Sara Fier," they say. "One that shades our home with evilness."
"It's not her," Hanna says. "Sara Fier did nothing wrong."
All that earns her is amused looks, and suspicious ones. Hanna's mother, later, tells her to stop spreading such rumors. "Some of our people, they, well-" She purses her lips. "They believe you might have something to do with it. Best to keep your head down."
Hanna keeps her head down. But every once in a while, she tilts it up to peek at the world. Search for any curly, dark hair. Any determined set of jaw. Any beautiful eyes.
Hanna never finds Sara.
It keeps on happening. Hanna will die, and then be born again, under a different name and face and family. There will be differences, and yet there will also be similarities. One that keeps her from forgetting who she is.
And yet she forgets anyway.
The details of her lives all mend together like colors swirling together over a paintbrush, circling each other on the canvas over and over until there is no real clarity to it-no shape, just a murky grey-and-green.
But that smile. The one promising hope.
She will never forget that.
Her name is Sam. Her father, though a good man, is never around. As for her mother-well, Sam doesn't like to think about her. Nothing about her stands out. She has pale hair, a pale face that makes her look tired 24/7. She slouches. She is an average C student. While every other kid has dreams they chase after, she has dreams she flees from.
"It's not bad, exactly," she tells her father, one day. "It's just-it's just weird. Uncomfortable."
"Yes," he says, "but what is it about?"
"I don't know," she replies.
Her father frowns. "You don't know what your nightmares are even about?"
Sam isn't sure it should be called nightmares. What little she remembers aren't things she can describe. Despair, suffocating her. Loneliness, weighing her down. "It's like someone died," she says, her voice a murmur. "Someone I really, really care about."
Her father's face softens. He places a big hand on her small shoulder. "Alright. I believe you."
The doctor doesn't believe her. He thinks nothing's wrong with her. "All dreams fade away eventually," he says. She doesn't know how to tell him that hers never has. And they never will.
There is an ache inside of Sam. More of an itch, really. An itch in her heart. The more she pokes and prods at it, the more the itch intensifies. So Sam leaves it alone. She pretends it's not there. Figures everyone else must have it too. It's just one of the things everyone experiences but never talks about because it's so strange and insignificant.
Then, Sam lays eyes on Deena, and the itch disappears.
"Oh," she says. A flower blossoms in her chest, its roots spreading around herr body, consuming her. "Oh," she says again, because the flower is no flower at all.
It is love.
"What's with that face?"
Sam blinks. "Huh?"
"That face you just made," Deena says, tilting her hair to the side, one of her long curls falling over her face. "Is it because I was trashing on Sara Fier?"
"Yeah, it's just-" Sam squirms. "I don't like the way people talk about her. Like she's some sort of monster."
"Well, isn't she?"
"No!" Deena blinks at her intensity, and Sam's cheeks flood with heat. "I mean, it happened a long time ago, right? And didn't lots of innocent girls get hanged because of dumb reasons in the 1800s? Sara Fier must be innocent too."
She must be.
Sam cannot accept otherwise.
Deena's lips twitch, then she leans in closer to peck Sam's cheek. "You're weird," she says, but she says it fondly, with a tone reserved for Sam and Sam only.
Sam puts her hands on each side of Deena's head, then crashes their lips together.
Deena breaks up with her. Says it's because Sam doesn't really see her when she looks at her.
"What the hell does that mean?" Sam half-asks half-yells, throwing her arms to the sides.
Deena continues to pace. Arms hugging herself. Jaw taut. "It's like-sometimes it's like you're looking at someone else. Like, like-" She presses a hand to her chest, facing Sam "-like I'm that someone else. Like I'm more than who I really am. And that fucking sucks, Sam."
"Yeah, well-" Sam swallows, grits her teeth "-since when do you care?"
Deena's eyes widen. "I've always cared!"
"No, you haven't," Sam says, her voice lowering as she looks away. "Not really."
It's great, what they have. Not a fairytale, but not something fleeting. Not something temporary.
For Sam, it's love at first sight. It should bother her, but it doesn't. Because Deena is Deena.
For Deena, however, it is a slow-burn. And Sam is alright with that. It's more rational, after all, to fall in love slowly.
They're perfect for each other.
And yet-"Sometimes, it's like you're not fully here with me. Like you're somewhere else. And I see this spark in you, Deena. I see this spark, but it's just so dim. And no matter how hard I try to make it brighter, to make it flash like fireworks, it just won't. And I'm tired of hoping it will."
Deena should laugh at her, call her crazy. Fireworks and sparks and an impresence. Things that make no sense, especially coming from the mouth of a teenager in the 1990s.
And yet her face is pale. And she's stopped pacing. Stopped moving.
Sam smiles sadly. "You know what I mean, don't you?"
Deena doesn't answer, and that's enough of an answer.
A car crash. A bloodied nose. A vision. A curse.
Sam understands now. Her dreams aren't dreams. And while she is Sam, she is also more than just Sam.
"I have to get out there," she says, with a surety she's never displayed before. One that turns all heads in her direction. And drains the color from Deena's face. "They're coming after me, so." She shrugs.
"No," Deena says, more of a breath than a voice. "Sam, no. What are you even-you can't do that." Sam comes up to her. Brings their foreheads together. "Don't do this."
Sam smiles. "It's my turn to save you."
She leaves, her smile still on her face as their friends grab Deena to keep her away from danger.
Sam doesn't die.
Sam dies.
Sam lives.
A voice whispers in her ear, one she can't disobey. It pulls her thoughts away from her body, stealing her own control.
Sam isn't Sam, and she stabs Deena. She fights her, and she fights with the intent to kill.
Deena keeps on screaming her name. Dodges instead of attacks. Cries.
"Sam, please!"
Sam can't listen. Sam is in a trance.
"Please!"
Sam is trapped. Chained. Tied down by invisible ropes.
"SAM!"
Sam is awake.
Then Deena bashes her head and Sam is no longer awake.
That night, when the night is so late it is early, Deena speaks. Hushed. Uncertain yet resolute. "My head, it's-I've got her memories, Sam. All of it."
Sam, in the midst of caressing Deena's cheek, stops. "All of it?"
Her heart flutters.
"Yeah." Deena closes her eyes. Shudders when Sam kisses her jaw. "I… It…" Her throat bobs as she swallows. "There was this girl."
Again, Sam's heart flutters.
"And she was-she was beautiful," Deena continues. "I was in love with her. Only, it wasn't me, was it? It was her. But it felt like me." Deena shifts, buries her nose in Sam's collarbone. Sam holds her tight. "I remember making this promise to her. That one day, we'll-we will leave this place. When this is over, we will leave this place." And then, Deena's voice isn't Deena's voice anymore. And they're no longer in Deena's bedroom. And Sam's name isn't Sam. "We will go far away. We will dance every night, and-"
"Kiss in broad daylight," Hanna finishes.
Sara opens her eyes. "You remember."
Hanna smiles at her. A smile promising hope. "I never forgot."