My boyfriend’s sister cursed me with an empathic link to a rag doll.
She’d deliberately dunk the doll in water, making me feel like I was being drenched, then spread rumors about my chaotic private life, ruining my reputation.
Next, she’d toss the doll into a bathtub full of water, and I’d instantly feel dragged underwater, gasping for air, my chest heavy, my whole body ready to explode.
Because of her twisted games, I lost a critical client for the third time.
I found my boyfriend, begging him to rein in his sister, the one he practically worshipped.
But he just sneered, shaking his head. “You say you can feel a toy’s pain? Are you out of your mind?”
With that, he lit the doll on fire right in front of me.
He stared at me, his face full of scorn. “It’s burned to ashes. How are you still standing here? What a pathetic act.”
The pain made my nails dig into my palms, snapping one clean off.
Yet, a wave of relief washed over me-she hadn’t won. I wasn’t dead.
But in the middle of the night, that familiar suffocating feeling returned.
I drowned in my dream, suffocated to death.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back to that day-the exact moment the empathic link began.
This time, I’d strike first.
Clutching a knife, I headed straight for that malicious girl.
If I was going to die anyway, I might as well drag her to hell with me.
1
<
“Skylar, Skylar!”
My colleague’s shouts jolted me awake.
My head was still swimming, and I looked up to see myself slumped over my office desk.
I… I’m back?
In my previous life, I’d somehow become bound by this “shared sensation” system to the rag doll Blake and Chloe had gotten together.
That girl, Chloe, always claimed she was emotionally unstable. The moment anything bothered her, she’d take it out on the doll.
She’d pinch it, throw it, dunk it in water, cut its hair-anything you could imagine.
But all that pain? I was the one who suffered it.
Random aches and pains were my new normal.
Even worse, sometimes I’d have no idea what she was doing, yet suddenly feel soaking wet-my suit skirt always had mysterious wet spots.
One project after another fell through. Clients called me unprofessional.
Someone even posted on the company’s internal forum, claiming I had a chaotic private life and couldn’t control myself.
When Blake heard the rumors, he stormed up to me, demanding answers.
I steadied my breathing, trying to explain the empathic link.
But he wouldn’t listen. He snatched the doll from Chloe’s hand, the one she never let go of, and threw it straight into the fireplace.
“Skylar, I know you’re jealous of how good I am to Chloe. But you can’t invent such a ridiculous lie to hurt her.”
“You say you’re connected to the doll? Well, it’s burned to ashes now. How are you still perfectly fine?”
The pain left me speechless, my entire body feeling as if it had been set on fire.
But inside, I sighed with relief-finally, finally free.
That night, however, the familiar sensation returned.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the past.
It was the very day Chloe ruined my first big collaboration.
I silently pulled open my drawer, staring at the proposal inside—a proposal I’d worked on for several sleepless nights. My eyes turned cold.
“Brenda, when are our partners arriving?”
My colleague glanced at the time, holding up two fingers. “Four o’clock. Two hours from now.”
I nodded, quickly reviewed the proposal, and told her, “If I’m not back in two hours, don’t wait for me. Start the meeting without me.”
With that, I grabbed my bag and left.
Those two hours were my chance to survive.
To figure out what the hell Chloe was up to, I bought a fruit knife from the supermarket.
On a whim, I sent Blake a text: “Are you with Chloe right now?”
He replied with a “Yup,” and I hailed a taxi straight to their place.
If I could get the truth out of her, great.
If not… then I wasn’t going to hell alone.
The car was still about half a mile from their house when that familiar torment
resurfaced.
I glanced down at my phone, my heart sinking.
Something was off. It wasn’t even three yet. Why was it…
It shouldn’t be this early.
