The Vanishing Point

I'm packing my bags, moving as fast as possible. My flight is in an hour, and I'm running out of time. I know if I don't leave now, I'll never make it. After I throw in some last-minute items from the bathroom, I zip up my bags and place them on the floor. Checking the mirror one last time, I run my fingers through my long, thick black hair and apply one more layer of 'Rad Berry Red' lipstick, and just like that, I'm ready to go. My blue eyes glisten in the sunlight as I open the front door and wheel both bags down the driveway to the waiting blacked-out Uber SUV.

The heels of my thigh-high black leather boots click with every step on the stone pavement, and I know I'm turning heads. The driver gets out and piles the bags into the trunk as I put on my black sunglasses and tie my plaid over-shirt around my waist. Jeans and a red Jack Daniel's tank top were my outfit of choice today, and of course, you can't miss the septum piercing in my nose. The elaborate rose tattoo on my right shoulder is still fresh and healing, but I want to show it off.

I take one final look at my suburban-style mansion of a house and get into the backseat of the Uber. This was it, no turning back. My new life would begin when I got to the airport and used my passport as Mae Reynard. Driver's license, birth certificate, Social Security card, you name it; Isobel Martin no longer existed. Instead, this was the birth of Mae Reynard and the life I could have had in Barcelona, far away from the States and the life I led here. As the Uber pulled 3 away, I watched the house disappear from my view, the very house where I took my first steps and reached so many other life milestones. As we drive out of the neighborhood and head farther into town, I hold the prepaid flip phone tightly and watch the screen until the clock reads 3 p.m., when the house explodes into a fiery scene. I exhale a deep breath and adjust myself to sit comfortably, staring out the window to my left when I ask, "Can you take the freeway, please?"

The Uber driver nods his head and makes a right turn onto the freeway, and as we merge onto it, you can see black smoke billowing off in the distance from the direction we had just come.

"Wow, I wonder what's happening over there?" the Uber driver asked.

"Yeah…I wonder," Mae responded, staring out the window at the flashing red lights and rising smoke.

Suddenly, memories come flooding back to me, and I can hear laughter in my mind. I can see myself playing on the swing set in our backyard and playing hide-and-seek with my dad. I remember tickle fights and sleepovers with my friends, not to mention all the time spent in the kitchen with my mom baking cookies. There were countless birthday parties and graduation celebrations that came to light, as well as milestones achieved in my life, even the ones leading up to the day that I inherited my childhood home.

I shake my head and bring myself back to reality. Those days are long gone; there's no point in reminiscing over a past that's no longer there, with people who no longer exist. Isobel died in that explosion, and I made sure they would find 'proof.' Thanks to having a friend in dental school, we spent weeks developing identical dental samples that I could leave behind so 4 that when they took records from the posed remains, they would match mine. No one would be looking for a dead girl. Mae is the fresh new start I could never have as Isobel. I could have any life I wanted now without the sordid family history that followed me throughout my entire life, including the tragic and gruesome murder of my parents last year.

You see, I was no ordinary girl from an ordinary suburban family. We were once royalty before we rejected our claim to the throne. My father was Prince Donovan of Saint Marques, who found royalty too hypocritical and too demanding of sacrifices. Those included the inability to marry my mother, Tanya, because she was a commoner. Well, I say commoner to be polite, but she was a stripper by trade, and that's how they met. I told you, sordid family secrets and such, but Mom and Dad fell head over heels for each other, and Dad gave up everything to be with her, turning his back on his birthright and rightful claim to the throne.

They moved to the States, took up residency in the suburbs, and kept to themselves, but that didn't stop the paparazzi from trying to scoop a story on the once-royal family now and then. However, they tried to live normally, running errands and volunteering in their community. Years later, they had a child: me, Isobel Martin. Growing up with everyone knowing who you are is such a pain in the ass. They either want to be your friend or they already hate you, even though they have no idea who you are. There's no in-between, and most of the time, the friendships were one-sided by people with hidden agendas. So, you can imagine my childhood was rough. In school, I was bullied a lot, and my gentle mother always said to kill them with kindness, but when did kindness ever protect you from a right hook? Anyway, I survived, and finally I graduated from college and decided to become an interior decorator. It went well initially; business was booming, and every celebrity was beating down my door to design their home, but 5 that fateful night happened. One night, I came home from a design show and found both of my parents dead on the floor of their bedroom; blood splattered everywhere. The walls were caked with blood, and the floor was so drenched that it had already started seeping through the ceiling downstairs.

The police launched a full investigation, but they never caught anyone for the crime. They said it was probably a botched break-in; however, nothing was taken. There was no evidence left behind and no witnesses; at least none that ever came forward. Both safes were still full, so to me, this had to be personal; I could feel it in my bones. Part of me suspected my paternal grandmother, Queen Diana. She hated my father for leaving the royal family, marrying my mom, and disgracing the family name. To her, it was a slap in the face. I always thought Grandma would be prouder of a dead son than a living one who married an ex-stripper and gave up his legacy for her, but nothing could ever be proven.

After that, business was nonexistent. No one wanted to hire me because of all the drama and sordid family history that came to light after the murders. Many things were leaked to the newspaper that portrayed my parents in a horrible light. It took them from being the victims who deserved sympathy to the victims that people began to think deserved what they had coming to them, and that broke my heart. People only knew me as "that girl," and I was shamed for my parents' mistakes, and I'll be damned if I was going to go down with them. As far as I knew, my life was over, and my reputation was ruined. People who were once considered friends were now strangers, and I had no family left to turn to. I was on my own, and I needed a fresh start.

Finally, I took matters into my own hands. I met a guy online in a dark web chat room, and he made me a fake ID and documents for a pretty hefty fee. He, of course, took advantage of who I was, but I didn't care. I had the money to get out, so it was worth it. Soon, I went from Isobel Martin to Mae Reynard, and that's when I truly started living, doing things I never thought I'd do. I knew people would recognize my platinum blonde hair and deep brown eyes, so I bought those color-changing contacts and chose bright baby blue. Then I purchased some black hair dye and went to town; I was unrecognizable as Isobel but had brought Mae to life, especially once I pierced my nose and got a half-sleeve tattoo on my right shoulder.

Through the guy who made my IDs and documents, I met an explosives expert who said he would rig the house, but I'd have to be out before 3 pm. Friday. Once the plan was set in motion, there'd be no stopping it or going back, so once I gave him the go-ahead, I knew that was it. The guy was pretty sketchy, to be honest; I was more concerned he was just going to murder me and take the money and run, but he did his job and left. Once the explosives were placed in the garage and basement, he gave me the trigger. He said to activate it once I was ready, and I'd have 30 minutes before "the house went boom."

His exact words.

So, here I am in an Uber SUV, almost to the airport, ready to hop on a plane to Barcelona, Spain, because I figured I would "Eat, Pray, Love" my way through life for the next six months or so until I found where I wanted to settle down and call home. Money isn't a problem, nor are my documents, so I can travel anywhere. This is my chance to be a completely different person and get the fresh start I've been so desperate for. As far as anyone is concerned, I'm just a girl from Queens, New York, traveling the world and studying various cultures. I can be anyone and do anything, and no one can stop me. 7 As the Uber pulls up to the front gate, I climb out as the driver approaches the trunk and helps me pull my bags out. A man stands by the entrance checking bags for my flight 366 to Barcelona. I wheeled them over to him, let him tag them, and added them to his cart.

"They'll make it on the flight, correct?" I asked him.

"Yes, ma'am, they're going on right now. You'd better hurry, or they'll leave without you," he says.

I rush through the sliding glass door and into the busy airport. It's filled with people all bustling around trying to reach their destinations. I can hear a baby cry in the distance as I approach the front desk. I head for the waiting redhead at the counter and hand her my ticket as she checks me in.

"Can I see your passport, please?" she asks.

I give her the passport, and she matches the names of both documents and then hands them back to me.

"Enjoy your flight, Miss Martin," she says with a smile.

I don't catch it at first and start to walk away when I suddenly stop and turn back to face her. She's still smiling at me intently when I ask her, "What did you just call me?"

"Miss Reynard, of course," she replies.

Suddenly, I feel security's eyes on me, and the room feels like it's closing in, getting smaller and smaller. My breathing starts to speed up, and my heart is racing. Something's wrong. 8 The baby is screaming now, and people are staring; I feel like I might be sick. She called me Miss Martin at first. It was subtle and quick, but I know I heard it. The room begins to spin when someone comes up behind me, wraps their arm around me, and injects a syringe into my neck. Everything gets fuzzy and starts to fade, and then, within seconds, I'm unconscious. 9