Chapter One
"All her fuckin' lives
Flashed before her eyes
It feels like the time
She fell through the ice
Then came out alive"
The Bolter by Taylor Swift
I remember the day Scarlett St. James died vividly.
It was her 25th birthday and, like most of her days, she woke up early, ate her breakfast, and got ready for work. She drove her old pickup truck across the small town she had moved back to after graduating college while drinking her second cup of coffee and dreaming of the day she would finally leave for good. She told herself that it would be "any day now". She was just waiting for the right time.
As Scarlett parked in the teachers lot, she leaned her head back against the worn out headrest and closed her eyes. She gulped air into her lungs and held the tears back, thinking how wrong everything about her life was.
Scarlett was never supposed to be a music teacher at the high school she had attended herself in her teen years. Scarlett was supposed to have made it. She was supposed to have left the small town she grew up in after graduating and become a star. She had escaped, only to return four years later when her alcoholic father finally died and took her mother with him in a car wreck. She had only wanted to stay long enough to clean out their house, sell it off, and then take off to a bigger city. For whatever reason, though, she had stayed.
She had remained in the house that she had hated growing up. The house that had ghosts and memories hiding in every square foot of space. She had accepted the job at the high school as their music teacher and settled into a quiet, miserable life. Her only reprieve had been driving three hours away every Saturday to perform in a packed bar in Saint Louis.
Shaking herself out of her morning pity party, Scarlett let out a deep breath and jumped out of the old pickup truck, taking her bag with her. She pasted a bright, fake smile to her face, one that she perfected when she did beauty pageants years ago, and skipped into the school like there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.
The day dragged on as she taught her students and fended off advances from Mr. Hart, the principal. No one said "happy birthday". It was just another day.
Until lunch rolled around and Scarlett sat at her desk to eat a salad. She'd been pushing a tomato around the bowl when she heard the classroom door open and she looked up to see James Licoln standing awkwardly just inside the room with his hands behind his back.
Scarlett had a soft spot for James. He was a smart kid who had been dealt a shitty hand. His background reminded her much of her own. Poor, alcoholic parents who liked to take their anger out on their child. Scarlett had tried to hotline the situation multiple times, but it never did any good.
"Hey, Ms. St. James. I, uh, brought you something," James said, shrugging and walking towards her.
His shaggy black hair fell into his green eyes as he walked towards her and pulled a single cupcake out from behind him in a clear container. He set it on the desk in front of her and gave her a small smile.
"Happy birthday," the teenager said.
Scarlett felt a rush of affection for the child as she beamed at him.
"Oh, James. You didn't have to do this. Thank you so much! Here, sit down. Let's share it," Scarlett said as she pulled the cupcake out and started breaking it in half.
"No, that's for you. It's your birthday. You should eat it," James murmured, but pulled a chair up to Scarlett's desk anyway.
"It's my birthday so that means I make the rules. And right now I say you have to share this with me," Scarlett declared, grinning widely at him.
James and Scarlett sat there and ate the chocolate cupcake while they talked. When James sat straight up and grinned, Scarlett knew he was about to tell her something good. James had been accepted to Dartmouth on a full ride scholarship for engineering. Scarlett felt a few tears slide down her face. The boy confided in the teacher, saying he would leave in July and that his parents didn't know about it.
"You promise me that you won't ever come back here, James. Never. You go and you do something big with your life," she said as she reached across the desk and clasped the boy's hand in hers.
"I promise," he nodded solemnly.
The moment ended as screams came from the hallway and then the classroom door flew open so hard that it shattered the glass paneling. Tom Lincoln stood in the doorway with a shotgun, the smell of whiskey rolling off of him and an undeniable anger written on his face.
Scarlett was out of her seat and in front of James before she even registered what she was doing. She knew the kind of damage an angry drunk man could inflict on his child.
"Stay behind me," she had whispered to James.
Everything that happened after that came in a blur, starting with Tom screaming about how James had the audacity to leave him and his mother after everything they had done for him while he waved the Dartmouth acceptance letter around wildly. Tom had stormed across the room and shoved Scarlett out of his way before turning the shotgun on James. Scarlett didn't let herself think about it when she flung her body into the man as his finger pulled the trigger. Police entered the room seconds later.
James had survived and held Scarlett's hand as the police radioed for paramedics. He never once looked away from Scarlett's face. Not as the police ripped his screaming father from the room, not as the EMT's tried their hardest to stop the bleeding, and not when she reached her hand up to cup the boy's cheek with blood stained hands and smiled at him before her eyes shut for the last time.
Scarlett's very last thought as she took her final breath was that she was finally leaving for good.
I, Scarlett St. James, died on October 20, 2016. When I opened my eyes again, it was June 12, 2003 and I wasn't Scarlett St. James anymore. I was Ashley Morgan, a twenty-five year old law student in New Orleans. When Ashley died on December 8, 2014, I woke up again on January 26, 1983. That time, I was Erica Johnson, a twenty-five year old bartender in Los Angeles.
I don't know what caused my soul to start jumping from body to body on the day I died. It was a never ending cycle that I didn't know how to get out of. I stopped trying to figure it out a very long time ago.
There was only one constant throughout my lives; they were all real. They were real people with real families whose body and memories I had taken over. I didn't know what happened to them once I stepped into their body, but I hoped they went somewhere good.
That constant, that realness, did not hold true anymore. When my most recent life as Dr. Victoria Walton ended, the universe sent me straight to what I could only assume was hell.
My eyes slowly opened and I took a moment to adjust to the site of gray concrete walls. Before I could take in the rest of my surroundings, my brain registered the sharp pain in my side and pounding in my head and my eyes snapped closed again.
I let out a groan and rolled over on my side, locking my arms around my abdomen.
Wherever I was, whatever life I was in, already fucking sucked.
Taking in a few deep breaths and attempting to calm my heart rate, I slowly opened my eyes again only to wish I hadn't done that at all.
I was absolutely in a jail cell. Or a prison cell, maybe? Regardless, I was definitely behind bars. Despite the pain I was currently feeling an almost hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat and out my mouth before I could stop it.
I was in a small bunk bed on what had to be the most uncomfortable mattress known to man underneath me. There was nothing in the room except a toilet, a small sink, a mirror that looked like it wasn't even made of glass, and a small desk with a chair in front of it.
I had never, in any of my lives, been incarcerated.
I tried to pull from the memories that should be in my head and came up completely blank, which just caused me to laugh like a crazy person again. When I took over a body, I always had the memories of the person before me. Always. I would know my new name, my job, family, all of it. But I could not for the life of me recall a single memory from this person's life.
"What's got you laughing in here, friend? I sure could use a laugh myself."
My eyes drifted to the bars that were locking me away from the rest of the world and my breath hitched when bright blue orbs hooked on mine. It took me just a second to realize what I was looking at. Who I was looking at.
Hershel? Like, Hershel Greene from The Walking Dead?
The moment his name crossed my mind, I laughed again. The pain was very blatantly making me delirious. This man probably just looked similar to one of my favorite characters from one of my favorite TV shows. Like a doppelganger or something.
I sat up slowly, my hand pressing on my left side, as I looked back to the man.
"I'd be careful when you're moving about. You have a nasty bruise on your side. I can't imagine it feels too good right now," the man said with a smile.
"Daddy, is she awake?" A high pitched voice said.
"She's up? I can go get Rick," another feminine voice said.
Two figures walked up to stand next to the Hershel look-alike. Two figures whose faces I instantly recognized. Laughter sounded through the room again. Was I making that sound?
"I think she's in shock or something," the short-haired woman said slowly, glancing at the older man.
"Go get Rick. Beth, you go with her," the older man commanded, not taking his eyes off of me.
I was in some kind of weird fever dream. I would wake up in my new body, in some other life, any second now. I had to be dreaming or something, because there wasn't another explanation for me having just laid eyes on Hershel, Beth, and Carol.
I closed my eyes and heard the scuffling of feet.
"Wake up, just wake up," I murmured to myself over and over again.
"Why don't you lie back on the bed? I'm worried you're going to pass out and I can't have you hitting your head again."
"Just wake up. Come on, wake up," I pleaded with myself.
Although my eyes were closed tight, I felt a dizziness fog my brain and my breathing became more labored. I was having a panic attack.
"Lay down. Now."
"Stop talking to me! You're not real. None of this is real," I mumbled.
And then I was asleep again.
"She panicked. She thought she was dreaming."
"She could just be crazy."
"Could be, but maybe not."
"We can't keep someone here that's dangerous."
"I'm not the one that brought her here, Rick."
I knew the voices talking. In my original life, I had been a huge fan of The Walking Dead. Not a fanatic, by any definition, but I had seen every episode up until my death. It had taken me multiple lives until I made it to a year that had allowed me to see the rest of the show.
However, the fact that I was hearing Rick Grimes and Hershel Greene talk about me as if I wasn't pretending to be asleep in front of them was not the current problem I had. My problem was that I didn't know what the fuck was happening. I had never woken up in a life that wasn't real. The Walking Dead was just a fucking TV show. A great one, but still a damn show. There was absolutely no way. Jumping lives and time had been hard enough to digest when it first started happening to me, but this was… jumping whole ass dimensions or something? Was there even a term for this?
Maybe I was still in a dream? A weirdly long, odd dream?
I opened my eyes slowly, instantly annoyed that I still had the pounding headache and ache in my side. The room grew quiet as the two men realized I was awake.
My eyes focused on the mattress above me for a moment before I turned my head to the side. Sure enough, Rick Grimes and Hershel Greene were standing a few feet from my bed looking down at me like I was a threat.
This was fine. I was a little starstruck and a little terrified, but it was fine.
"Hey," I settled on, the word coming out squeaky and high pitched.
Smoothe. Real smoothe.
"Hello. How're you feeling?" Hershel asked, looking at me.
Before I could answer, Rick's hard voice spoke.
"Who are you?"
Even though I was still panicking, I wanted to laugh again. They were acting exactly how I expected them to act.
I made a decision. Since I couldn't pull memories from this body for whatever reason, I would tell them my real name. It's not like they could confirm anything. This wasn't even the same universe I should be in.
"Feeling like I got hit by a semi truck. And I'm Scarlett. Who are you?"
"I don't think you're in the position to be asking questions here, Scarlett," Rick countered, raising an eyebrow at me.
The man was handsome and his eyes were gorgeous. I wanted to hug him and tell him I was a huge fan, but that seemed like the worst possible idea right now. Rick Grimes was a force of a man and I wasn't going to get shot just because I wanted a hug.
"Are you always this nice to people you don't know? Or am I just extra special?" I asked as I started to push myself into a sitting position.
"Hate to break it to you but you're not that special," Rick deadpanned.
"Well that's just rude," I mumbled, pressing my hands to the sides of my head in an effort to make the pounding subside.
"How did you end up out there? Are there people looking for you?" Rick asked, his tone clipped.
It was fun watching the man grill people who wanted into his group, but being on the receiving end of it was not a good time.
I forced my eyes down in an attempt to find the source of the pain in my side. Pulling my hands away from my head, I slowly lifted the side of the dark green tank top I was wearing only to be met with a nauseating site. A giant black and purple bruise spanned most of my left side.
From the amount of pain and the location of the bruise, I assumed I had maybe fractured a rib or two. It would heal on its own, but it was going to hurt like a bitch for a while. Possible that I had a concussion, too, given the symptoms I was experiencing. Thank you, Dr. Victoria Walton.
"Do we have to do this now?" I asked Rick, suddenly very irritated with the day's turn of events, "I'm sure you can see for yourself that I'm not exactly feeling my best. I think I have a concussion and probably a few cracked ribs. I just want to sleep."
"You wanna be inside these walls then we're doing this now," Rick growled, his hand resting on the gun in his holster at his side.
"Anyone ever told you that you can be really annoying sometimes?" I asked, grimacing as I stood from the bed to stretch my legs.
Honestly, maybe I could just piss Rick off enough to where he would kill me and then I could wake up in whatever life I was supposed to be in and pretend like this didn't fucking happen. As I contemplated the idea, though, I caught sight of my reflection in the warped mirror and for the second time in a short while, I felt like I was going to have another panic attack.
Because the face looking back at me wasn't one that I didn't know. It wasn't a new face attached to a new body. It was me. The real fucking me. I was in my body. Those were my blue eyes and my blonde hair and my lips that popped open in a gasp. I could see the black ink of the tattoo I had gotten on my back when I was eighteen slightly on the top of my shoulders. I could see the scar on my left collarbone from when my dad had thrown an ashtray at me when I was thirteen.
My hand slowly came up to touch my face, tracing over my lips, as I stepped closer to the mirror. I hadn't seen my face in… I couldn't even say how long, because I had no idea. Time worked differently for me. I had almost forgotten what I looked like.
My eyes caught on the large, tender looking mark on the right side of my head. It was an angry red color and there was a small lump formed. My fingers went to touch it and I let out a hiss when I made contact. I had definitely hit my head pretty hard on something.
While I was beyond excited to be in my own body, I noticed everything immediately that I hadn't before. I was filthy. My hair was matted and there was blood in it. A dark substance was caked in some of the strands and I didn't want to think at all what it could be. Dirt was stuck to my face and I felt as though I would need a flamethrower to get all of it off at this point.
As I stared at myself, I laughed again. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop any of this. I was in fucking Georgia with the characters from a TV Show about the zombie apocalypse. What the actual fuck? I found myself momentarily pissed. I also really loved the show New Girl. Why couldn't I have ended up there?
"Are you going to pass out again? Because you should probably sit down if that's the plan," Hershel suggested, gesturing towards the bed.
I had genuinely forgotten they were in here.
I looked over at the two men, sizing them up for a second. While I loved the show and loved the characters, I didn't want to go through their… I don't know, storyline? The Governor, Terminus, The Claimers, fucking Negan? No, thank you. At the very minimum, it would have been nice to wake up in Alexandria.
"I'm not going to pass out," I replied, trying to make my voice even, although I did listen and walked back to the bed so I could sit down.
"Rick has some questions that we need you to answer and then we can leave you alone to rest," Hershel said gently.
I nodded my head. I knew what the questions were.
"How many walkers have you killed?" Rick asked.
"I lost count. A lot," I said generically.
I'd seen people answer him the same way on the show before and that seemed to appease him.
"How many people have you killed?"
"None."
Which was true.
"Why?" He asked, his eyes staring deep into mine.
"I haven't needed to," I said, making sure not to look away from him.
He nodded his head slowly.
"Why were you alone?"
"Everyone I had died."
I cautiously kept all of my answers short and to the point. If I started weaving a web of lies, it was only going to put me in deeper shit.
"If you hurt my family, and everyone here is my family, I will kill you myself," Rick stated in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was telling me the weather.
"Understable. I'm not going to hurt anyone. If anything, I could help them," I offered, shrugging my shoulders.
"Help them how?" Rick questioned, narrowing his eyes at me.
By making sure none of you clueless fucks wander into any of the thousands of shit situations you put yourselves in over the years.
"Before all of this," I started, waving my hand around, "I was a general surgeon."
Again, not a lie. They needed an actual doctor and I was pretty good at being one.
"You look pretty young to have been a doctor," Hershel said, raising an eyebrow.
Well, yeah. Caught me there. Every life I've lived, I have woken up at twenty-five. I had died on my 25th birthday. I assumed I was twenty-five now and from what I could see under the dirt in the mirror, I was twenty-five again.
"I graduated with my undergrad at twenty. Got into an accelerated med school, graduated at twenty-three. I was three years into a five year residency when everything happened," I said smoothly and crossed my fingers that they believed me.
"So you're twenty-seven?" Hershel asked and I nodded my head, "Where were you doing your residency?"
"Harlem Hospital Center in New York."
Again, that wasn't a lie. That's where I had done my residency when I was Dr. Walton.
"How the hell did you get out of New York alive?" Rick asked.
I sighed. I really didn't want to do all of this right now.
"Can we please do the rest of this tomorrow or something? My head hurts and I just want to sleep," I requested, letting my head drop.
It was quiet for a moment before Rick and Hershel started walking towards the opening of the cell.
"Someone will bring you food and water later. If you need anything, tap the bars. Someone will hear you," Rick said as he slammed the bars closed and locked it.
"Aye aye, captain," I murmured as I laid back on the bed.
I heard Rick snort, like he was trying to hold in a laugh.
A smile pulled at my face. I had just made Rick Grimes almost laugh. I'd chalk that up as my only win for the day.
I let sleep pull me under, not letting myself contemplate what anything I had been through today meant.
