High above the cityscape of a gray Canadian metropolis, the biting wind tugged at the torn sleeves of a young woman standing alone atop a weathered apartment building. The rooftop beneath her feet was cracked and cold, mirroring the broken pieces of her soul. Her raven-black hair whipped around her pale, bruised face like ink in stormy water, and her brilliant blue eyes, dulled by sorrow, glistened with silent tears.
Samantha stared out over the horizon as the sun dipped below the skyline, its last golden rays casting long shadows across the rooftops. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a struggle against the despair pressing down on her like a leaden weight.
'This can't go on', she thought, bitterness thick on her tongue. Night after night, that wretched monster who dared to call himself her husband defiles her—twists the word 'love' into something foul and grotesque. His affection is pain. His devotion, humiliation.
Her body bore the map of her suffering: fading scars, fresh bruises, and raw welts—each one a testament to Trevor's cruelty. The slow, sticky trickle of blood down the inside of her legs was the latest gift from his so-called "love"—a punishment for her weakness. For failing him.
The family doctor had delivered a quiet verdict to Trevor just days ago: his brutal brand of intimacy had rendered her incapable of bearing children—her only perceived worth to him. She'd hoped, briefly, that this might set her free.
It did not.
Trevor's rage had been volcanic. When the doctor left, she'd been left in a crumpled heap on the marble floor, bloodied and barely conscious. Then came the chilling announcement: she would be repurposed. Like a broken piece of machinery. Starting that very night, she would be transferred to the guards floor and become their property. To be used nightly and disposed of emotionally, if not physically. A slave. A ghost in her own home.
During the day, she would return to her duties as a servant. At night, she would no longer be considered human.
'Even his mother is a monster', she thought bitterly, another tear sliding down her cheek. A banshee in pearls. Her "corrections" were carved into her just as deeply as his. All while she breaks her body keeping their cursed house pristine.
A choked sob escaped her lips as her fingers clenched into trembling fists. She stepped closer to the building's edge, her shoes scuffing against gritty concrete.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, the wind stealing her voice. "I won't."
Then came the sound of footsteps—sharp, deliberate.
"Well, well. Can't do what, my sweet little wife?" came Trevor's voice, slick and poisonous. He stood behind her, arms crossed, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"If you're thinking of taking the easy way out, I'm afraid I can't allow that. My men are quite eager for their new plaything. And as much as I enjoy breaking you myself, I'm generous. I share."
His laughter was ice in her spine.
"You seem to forget, darling," he said, stepping closer, "I own you. Bought and paid for. Your charming parents were quite happy to trade their worthless daughter for a life of luxury. And should you run crying to them? Well, the contract says I can strip them of everything if they don't return you. Do you think they'd sacrifice their precious lifestyle for the daughter they sold like cattle?"
Samantha turned slowly to face him, the edges of her vision hazy with tears and hatred. Her feet moved on instinct, carrying her to the corner of the roof. A glance behind confirmed what she feared: fine-meshed safety nets stretched out below like invisible spiderwebs—traplines to catch the desperate. Cleverly concealed. A deterrent for most.
But not for her.
She was thin, too thin—starved by design to keep her weak, to keep her compliant, worn down until her bones jutted beneath translucent skin. The gaps at the corners of the nets were narrow, but just wide enough. Hope flickered.
She took a breath and aligned herself carefully.
"You've tried to make me your prisoner," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "But there's one place even you can't drag me back from."
Trevor lunged forward, but she was already leaning.
"I hope when your time comes, you burn."
And with that, she let herself fall—backwards, eyes closed, arms wrapping around her own battered frame like wings.
Trevor's scream echoed after her, shrill and impotent.
Samantha opened her eyes mid-fall, wind howling around her like a final lullaby. A small, defiant smile touched her lips as she raised her middle finger to the shrinking figure above.
'Let it hurt', she thought. 'Pain is my only constant. Let this one be the last.' Even with all she went through, her last thought was hoping she didn't take anyone else with her…well maybe a guard or two. "I hope I land on that damn Beamer of his"
And then the world rushed up to meet her.
---
Far beyond Earth's bounds, past the dust of dead stars and the dreams of ancient gods, there existed not one divine being—but many. And among these cosmic entities, some wielded powers that would render humanity's myths little more than bedtime tales.
They did not seek worship. They needed no temples or prayers. Their interest lay in creation—galaxies spun from stardust, worlds born in fire and silence, populated and abandoned by their whim.
Lesser tasks—like guiding souls and planting seeds of life—fell to other deities. Among them, the Goddess of Rebirth, a radiant figure cloaked in nebulae, cradled a realm of her own: the Sanctuary of Souls. It was her duty to guide the dead into new lives, to mend what had been broken by life's cruelty.
Most souls arrived the usual way, drifting through cosmic rivers, their memories faded, their wounds healed by time and starlight. But the ones who took their own lives—those rare, fractured beings—were different. Their journeys took longer. Their sorrow was heavier. Their light dimmer.
And sometimes… they strayed.
A single soul flickered in the void, alone and off-course. The Goddess paused, curious. She extended a hand wreathed in stars and gently plucked the orb from the stream.
"Oh… what have we here?"
Her voice was a caress—warmth, sunlight, and lullabies rolled into sound. In her palm, the soul pulsed faintly, trembling. She could feel the damage, the scars etched deep into its essence.
"Samantha," she murmured, watching the life of the woman unfold before her in delicate strands of memory. "What a terrible world you were born into."
She cradled the soul tenderly. "But you endured it longer than most would have. You deserve another chance. Not as punishment, but as reward."
With a soft breath, a shimmering mist flowed from the goddess's lips, wrapping around the soul in silvery tendrils. The pain was eased, the trauma healed—not forgotten, but softened, transformed into wisdom. A past to be remembered, not relieved. Sam needed those memories as a gadget to measure new experiences by. She's end up like every other soul if not, a dulled appreciation for things that always were.
"There," she whispered. "I know just the place. A world of magic and monsters, of strength and wonder. A world you might finally come to love."
And with another breath, she released the soul.
The glowing orb danced through the cosmos, gliding toward a swirling portal of lavender and gold.
To a new world. A new life.
And for the first time in forever, Samantha was free.