Reborn To Tame The Insomniac Monster

The first rays of dawn were creeping through the bathroom window when Clora finally shut the door behind her.

She leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection. The black eyeliner was smudged under her eyes. The silver lip ring was digging into her skin. The cheap, colorful hair dye was fading at the roots.

She looked like a clown. A desperate, angry clown who had tried to scare away the big bad wolf by looking ugly.

It hadn't worked. It had never worked. In her last life, she had thought that if she made herself unlovable, if she made herself look like a freak, Essex would be disgusted. He would get bored and let her go.

She had been an idiot. Essex Langley didn't care about ugly. He cared about possession. The more she fought, the more she defaced herself, the tighter he held on. It was a challenge to him.

Well, the game was changing.

Clora reached up and unclasped the studded collar from her neck. It hit the marble counter with a heavy thud. She felt her throat expand, taking in a deep breath of air for the first time in years.

She turned on the hot water, letting the steam fill the small room. She grabbed a washcloth and the bottle of makeup remover.

She scrubbed. She didn't gently wipe; she attacked the black smudges. The dark eyeshadow came off in streaks, washing down the drain in gray rivers. The heavy foundation melted away, revealing the pale, smooth skin underneath.

She looked at the lip ring. She took a deep breath, twisted the small metal ball, and pulled the hoop out. The sharp sting made her wince, and a small bead of blood welled up from the tiny hole in her lower lip. She pressed a piece of tissue to it until the bleeding stopped, leaving a tender, red mark. She tossed the piece of metal into the trash can. It belonged in the garbage, just like the girl who wore it.

She grabbed a towel and scrubbed her face dry. When she looked in the mirror again, she barely recognized herself. The dark, angry eyes were gone. In their place were bright, clear green eyes that looked back with a sharp, calculating intelligence.

Next, the tattoos. She turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray. She grabbed the loofah and the exfoliating scrub, going to work on her arms and neck. The intricate skulls and snakes weren't real. They were high-quality waterproof transfers she had spent hours applying, just to piss off her family.

The hot water and the scrub turned them into a messy, colorful puddle at her feet. She watched the fake ink swirl down the drain, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. The lies were washing away.

When she stepped out, she felt lighter. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, completely bare.

The girl in the mirror was stunning. She had always been stunning, but she had buried it under layers of grime and anger. The Parrish genes were undeniable. High cheekbones, a delicate jawline, and a figure that was both graceful and dangerous.

This was the real Clora Parrish. Not the rebellious teenager, not the victim, but the heiress. The survivor.

She walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. She pushed past the ripped fishnets, the band t-shirts, and the leather jackets. Way in the back, still in the dry-cleaning bag, was a simple white dress.

Her mother had bought it for her eighteenth birthday, right before the engagement. It was elegant, modest, and completely inappropriate for a punk rocker. Clora had sworn she would rather die than wear it.

She unzipped the bag and slipped the dress over her head. The soft cotton felt cool against her skin. It fit perfectly, nipping in at the waist and flaring out over her hips.

She found a brush and dragged it through her wet hair, pulling it back into a smooth, low ponytail. No hairspray. No gel. Just clean, shiny hair.

She looked at herself one last time. The transformation was complete. The angry, broken girl was gone. In her place stood a woman who looked like she belonged in this manor, standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who owned it.

"Hello, Clora," she whispered to her reflection. "Let's go start a war."

She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. The house was quiet, but she knew eyes were watching. She walked toward the grand staircase, her head held high.

She couldn't wait to see the look on their faces.