Chapter 5: The Ending We Choose

“No, she hasn’t eaten much, there’s nothing to poop,” the stomach kid said, and the class president agreed.

As Henry’s mouth got closer, everyone panicked.

“Watch me!” the hair kid said.

Just as Henry was about to kiss, the heroine’s hair whipped up and smacked him in the face.

“What the hell?” Henry blinked, rubbing his cheek. In the low light, he didn’t see clearly.

The hair kid flopped onto the pillow, playing dead.

Marissa: “It’s nothing… can you not kiss me?”

Henry, distracted, sneered, “I insist.”

He leaned in again.

“My first kiss—no way!” Marissa screamed.

I hissed, “Spit! Now!”

“Oh, right!”

Inspired, Marissa spat at Henry: “Ptooey—”

The room went dead silent.

Henry wiped his face. Then, just as we’d hoped, he threw us out and ordered us sent to the convent.

When the heroine woke, it was done. She asked what happened, and the maids looked at her sadly. After hearing, her eyes filled with tears. “I must’ve gone crazy and disgusted him. Maybe that’s for the best. Now I know for sure he doesn’t care.”

She looked relieved, packed her things, and got ready to go. The weight of heartbreak and freedom mixed in her eyes.

Suddenly, the door opened. The villainess, Annabelle, entered, all pearls and silk, smiling. “The master told me to escort you.”

Her maids pinned the heroine down.

“What are you doing?” the heroine asked, same as all of us.

Annabelle smirked, “You seduced the master last night and disgusted him. He’s sending you to the convent. I’m here to cut your hair.”

“Cut my hair?”

“Since you’re becoming a nun, you need to be shorn.” Annabelle yanked the heroine’s hair and started snipping. The sound of scissors biting through hair made even the bravest of us cringe.

“Ahhh!” the hair kid screamed, “I’m splitting!”

We all panicked, but couldn’t do anything while the heroine was awake.

Soon, the heroine was bald. The hair kid sobbed, “I’m gone, what will I do?”

Ms. Bennett said, “We’ll take you with us.”

“Really?”

“We will,” everyone promised.

“Witch!” we all muttered.

The villainess shoved the heroine, making her hit her head and faint.

We snapped into control. The legs stood up, hands grabbed Annabelle and slapped her. Her maids rushed in. We dodged, punched, kicked, spat, bit—thirty people, one body, finally took down Annabelle and her maids. It was chaos, pure and simple, like a brawl in a high school hallway.

“Annabelle deserved it!” Marissa bit her ear hard.

“Ahhh!” Annabelle screamed—her ear actually got bitten off!

We were stunned.

“Marissa, that’s a bit much…”

“What’s done is done, let’s run,” Ms. Bennett said.

We scooped up the hair, bundled it, and crawled out. Standing was too hard, so we crawled on all fours, running. The image was so wild I almost laughed.

The maids screamed, “Miss Charlotte bit off Madam’s ear!”

If crawling and pooping had shocked the mansion, this time biting off Annabelle’s ear shocked the whole town. Everyone knew: if a regular person did that, it was jail time. But a lunatic? Different story.

We were caught and sent to the sheriff’s office. To protect the heroine, we kept acting crazy—rolling eyes, sticking out tongue, crawling everywhere. The whole town saw her running wild. The sheriff decided she was insane. The focus shifted from her violence to whether her madness was caused by her family or the mansion. The case became a local scandal. Charlotte’s mom was gone, her dad didn’t care, but couldn’t let the family’s name be ruined.

At the sheriff’s, her family insisted she was fine, the mansion abused her. Marissa drooled, “Sister hurt me… sister hurt me…” I rolled my eyes up and down, scaring everyone. They were convinced she was mad.

In the end, Annabelle lost her ear and her reputation, shunned by the town’s ladies. Henry’s reputation tanked, too. In the original, all the pain was on Charlotte. Now, our chaos spread it around. Maybe that was for the best. For once, the story’s weight didn’t fall all on one person’s shoulders.

The heroine suffered for many reasons, half from others, half from herself. She never explained, let Henry misunderstand, and died young. After patching her up at the sheriff’s, we rode in the mansion’s carriage, facing a question—should we tell Henry the truth?

Pros: “No, we have to follow the plot or we’ll never get home.”

Cons: “We should tell him. Charlotte’s too pitiful. Besides, what if the way home is to change her fate?”

We split into two camps, arguing. The debate was heated, like a late-night dorm room fight over who gets the last slice of pizza.

The carriage stopped, and the driver told us to get out. Instead of home, we were dropped at the convent. After Annabelle’s drama, Henry sent us away for good. Since we couldn’t see him, we just kept following the plot.

At the convent, the nun told us, “Since Miss Charlotte is mad, don’t let her leave. Try to cure her.”

I wanted to roll my eyes at her, but the heroine woke up. She stood, confused, looking at the nun and the chapel. “Who am I, where am I?”

We all went quiet inside her. The echo of her question lingered, a reminder that this wasn’t just a story for her.

The heroine was put to work—washing laundry, hauling water—but got barely any food. At night, when she slept, we got up to help. The hands did the chores, grumbling, but Ms. Bennett, parked on a stone bench, said, “I get sat on all day and don’t complain. Suck it up.”

They shut up and worked. Leave it to Ms. Bennett to drop life lessons, even as a butt.

The hair kid, now cut off, could move freely, but not far from the heroine. She’d curl around windows, reporting what she saw.

“Every strand feels like a limb. It’s wild,” she said.

We all envied her. Being hair was weird, but also kind of cool.

“Wait, if getting cut off means freedom, should we try it?” the troublemaker wondered.

“Hair lasts, but a hand would rot,” I said. “If we all try for freedom, Charlotte will be torn apart.”

Everyone agreed. The thought of losing anyone else made us all shudder.

The next morning, the heroine saw all the chores done and was shocked. The nuns said she did it. She started suspecting something was up. Over time, we got more coordinated, able to act like a normal person and finish her chores. The heroine spent her days enjoying the garden, smiling more. Whatever she left, we finished for her. It was like being her guardian angels—if guardian angels could also be digestive tracts.

One night, before bed, she wrote on a scrap of paper: Thank you, other me.

“She thanked us!”

“She thinks there’s only one other person, but there are thirty!”

“The heroine’s so sweet. We made her life crazy, and she still thanks us.”

I beamed, “Of course, my daughter’s the gentlest soul.”

“Daughter?” Marissa pounced.

I quickly shut up.

“Explain!”

Other girls glared. “Spill it!”

Cornered, I mumbled, “Um… this whole tragic story… I wrote it.”

“What? This dumpster fire was yours?” Marissa shrieked. “No wonder you know the plot. I’ll get you!”

She stuck out the tongue and tried to swipe my eyes.

I closed my eyelids.

Nose kid: “Ow, Marissa, you hit me.”

I peeked again—she couldn’t reach, and I laughed, “Try again!”

Whoosh! The tongue stretched and licked my eyelid.

I yelped, “Can it really reach that far?”

Marissa was shocked too.

“Enough,” the troublemaker grumbled.

Marissa shot back, “You two hands fight all the time.”

When we first transmigrated, the football captain and troublemaker, as enemies, made the hands slap each other every night.

I changed the subject: “Let’s write back to the heroine.”

Everyone agreed.

The right hand picked up a pencil stub and wrote: No need to thank us.

The next day, the heroine saw the words and was stunned. Bored at the convent, she started writing to us every day. We liked talking to her, too.

“Charlotte, jerks aren’t worth it. You matter most.”

“Say what you mean. Don’t bottle things up.”

“Refuse unreasonable demands.”

We told her: don’t pine for jerks, stand up for yourself, and, above all, say no. If she didn’t, we’d have to do all her chores.

A couple days later, the nun told her to fetch water again. She refused.

The nun glared. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat!”

We watched, nervous, as Charlotte stood her ground. “If it’s not my job, I won’t do it.”

The nun stormed off, leaving her hungry. Charlotte foraged wild greens and said, “If I sleep, I won’t be hungry.”

I felt bad. When she slept, I told the digestive tract kids, “Don’t digest everything, let her feel a little full.”

“Got it,” they said.

At night, we crept down the hallway, raided the kitchen, and trashed the head nun’s room. Chaos: achieved.

“What are you doing?” the nun shrieked.

We kept acting crazy, wrecking her room. The convent was in chaos. We ran out, rolling eyes, sticking out tongue, crawling everywhere. If anyone scolded us, Marissa bit them. The nuns were terrified. When they locked us up, Marissa cursed, “Let me out or you’ll be haunted!”

“Ha! This is a convent, no ghosts here,” the nun scoffed.

When she slept, the hair kid crawled into her nose, making her miserable. The hair floated outside the nuns’ windows, scaring them. After a couple times, they left us alone.

The next day, Charlotte told the nun, “I have a condition. It’s best not to provoke me.”

The nun, scared, brought her food.

Charlotte was thrilled. We were glad she stood up for herself.

One day, she found a scrawny orange kitten behind the chapel.

“Here comes the second-to-last plot point: the kitten’s death,” I warned.

Ms. Bennett was excited: “Great!”

Life at the convent got easier, and we got more coordinated. Even Ms. Bennett stopped crying every time she had to poop.

Charlotte cared for the kitten. Days passed. Then Annabelle visited the convent, hoping to see Charlotte miserable, but found her healthy and content. Furious, she snatched the kitten and snapped its neck in front of Charlotte.

“No!” Charlotte sobbed.

Furious and weirdly relieved—the plot was moving, but at what cost?

Annabelle, gloating, said, “You bit off my ear, now you pay.”

The next day, a carriage came to haul Charlotte back.

“Final plot point coming,” I said. “We’re almost out.”

Sure enough, days later, Annabelle was poisoned. Everyone blamed Charlotte. The doctor claimed, “Only blood from a close female relative’s heart can cure her.”

Henry walked to Charlotte, cold. “Did you hear that?”

Charlotte looked up. “Taking my heart blood will kill me.”

Henry sneered, “You poisoned Annabelle. A life for a life.”

Charlotte stood tall. “I didn’t poison her, and I won’t do as you wish.”

Henry said nothing. Everyone else watched, not surprised by her refusal.

But we were shocked. In the novel, Charlotte agreed, heartbroken, and died. Now, she refused. We’d messed up the plot.

“Charlotte has to die!”

“No, she wants to live. What’s wrong with that?”

“Then we’ll make her do it when she sleeps—”

“That’s cold.”

“How else do we get home?”

“How do you know her death is the key?”

For the first time, we had a huge fight—over life and death. Voices overlapped, nobody listening, just arguing.

“Guys, quiet,” Ms. Bennett said. “Let me say something.”

We all listened.

“Killing is wrong,” she said. “Don’t think you can hide in the crowd. And we don’t even know if it’ll work. In life, you’ll face moments where crossing the line seems easy. I hope you never become those people.”

The troublemaker retorted, “Easy for you to say. You’ve messed with us plenty.”

Ms. Bennett: “You’re seniors now. I know you hate my rules, but I just want you to succeed.”

“Yeah, but you forced Emily to transfer. That was too much!”

The class president jumped in: “You all hate Ms. Bennett because of Emily? Emily’s her daughter.”

“What?!”

“And her boyfriend… was me.”

“What?!”

“But Emily’s last name is Rivers.”

Ms. Bennett coughed. “She takes her mom’s name. I can’t go public, it’d hurt her. She transferred for a better school. The class president wanted to date her, so he always helped me.”

We were speechless. So Emily wasn’t forced out. The class president was just sucking up to his future father-in-law?

“I’m strict because I messed up in high school. My own romance tanked my grades. Most high school love goes nowhere. You have to build your future first.”

Her words made us all think.

Marissa said, “You meant well. But times are different. We can handle ourselves.”

“Can you? Just now, some of you were ready to kill.”

“I wasn’t!” some protested. Others stayed quiet.

The meeting ended with no answers.

Charlotte refused to give her heart blood and left the mansion. Henry, knowing it’d mean her death, hesitated but let her go. She leaned on a tree and whispered, “Other me, did I do okay? I chose independence, I spoke up, I fought fate. Was that right?”

We were silent. She’d listened to us. She remembered every word. She was fighting back.

After a moment, I said, “You did great.”

“So did you,” Ms. Bennett said. The rest of us joined in. If we could’ve, we’d have applauded.

Charlotte never knew, that day, thirty people cheered for her. In her world, she was alone, but she kept going.

The first thing she did after leaving was find out who had the most power, then reported Annabelle’s poisoning plot. She summoned the best doctor in town to re-examine Annabelle. With the officials and the doctor, Annabelle’s scheme was exposed. Henry stared at her, shocked. She begged for mercy; he kicked her out.

Charlotte said to Henry, “Five years ago, I saved you in the woods. Later, we fell in love. My family forced me to break off the engagement, but I spent everything to help you. You ruined my name, forced me to be your mistress, and now let Annabelle take my life.

Henry, I never wronged you, but you wronged me at every turn. I’m done.”

Henry was stunned. “You really saved me? You begged the governor for me?”

Charlotte smiled. “You’re smart. Annabelle’s tricks were obvious. You just didn’t want to look.”

With that, she packed up and went to the convent.

At the chapel, she said, “This life, I’ll stay here and pray for your souls.”

Uh?

She spoke to the air: “You must be lost souls, right? Thank you for helping me. Tell me your names, and I’ll light a candle for you.”

I teared up. “See, my daughter is beautiful and kind!”

Marissa and a few others cried. We didn’t know how to go home, and the plot was off the rails, so we let it be.

At night, the football captain wrote our names on a slip of paper. Thirty names. The next day, Charlotte read them and lit a candle for each.

First, Ms. Bennett’s. When the candle lit, her voice vanished. Next, Marissa’s. Third, mine.

When Charlotte read my name, I felt myself lift—light as air. That’s when I knew: saving her was the way home.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. So were all my classmates. We woke up, one by one.

Then we remembered. Before the lightning, there was an earthquake at school. Ms. Bennett told us to get out, but there wasn’t time. She told us to hide under our desks. The last thing I remembered was her shielding a classmate from falling debris… Miraculously, we all survived.

Most forgot the transmigration. I asked Marissa, and she vaguely remembered, but it faded. After a day, my memory faded too.

Back at school, nobody seemed to dislike Ms. Bennett or the class president anymore. The football captain and troublemaker stopped fighting. Some kids who didn’t get along became friends. The four underachievers suddenly started working hard, always muttering, “I can do it! If I can stand up, I can get good grades!” Then looking at each other, confused by the phrase.

A couple kids with bad attitudes suddenly became model students. The athlete and the most outspoken girl reported their relationship to Ms. Bennett, who didn’t call their parents. The whole class got into biology, grades improved, and we were more united than ever. It was like we’d all survived something together, even if we couldn’t remember what.

One evening during study hall, Marissa came over, all mysterious. “I’ve got shocking news.”

“What?”

“Emily is actually Ms. Bennett’s daughter!”

I gaped. “Really?”

Marissa nodded. “And Emily really was in love. Guess who her boyfriend was?”

“Who?”

“The class president!”

I covered my mouth. “So he was sucking up to his future father-in-law!”

After we chatted, I looked down at my phone, opened my fiction app, and saw my finished melodrama, with only a handful of likes. I grumbled, “Why don’t people like stories anymore? Don’t make me beg!”

If following trends gets me nowhere, I’ll write what I want.

I opened the editor, deleted the old ending, and rewrote it from the point where the heroine refused to give her heart blood—

Charlotte finally woke up, refused to die, reported Annabelle, brought in the best doctor, exposed the villainess, cut ties with Henry, and returned to the convent to pray for her mom. Henry regretted everything, divorced Annabelle, begged for forgiveness, but Charlotte ignored him. The governor’s daughter took her in, and Charlotte met a kind prince. With the governor’s help, she married the prince and lived happily ever after. Henry, heartbroken, went gray overnight and died in the war. Annabelle was punished and died in disgrace.

At the end, I typed: "The heroine lived happily ever after."

If anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s her. Let the jerk regret it all he wants. I’m done with tragic endings.

Finally, I typed—

The End.