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Let's see, how do I begin this? Do I introduce myself first? I guess, but my name does not really matter now. All that matters is what I'm going to tell you. For now, you call me Mar. That is one of the only things I can remember right now. My mother used to call me that when I was younger, but now, I am not even sure if that was my mother or my older sister. It does not matter, just let me tell you what happened while I still have the memories.

I remember dirt, papers, trash bins and a big city in the middle of the state we lived in. My mother, my older sister and I all lived in this tiny, cramped apartment on the sixth floor of our building. My older sister, Heidi― or was it Amanda? Yes, I am pretty sure it was Amanda. I am already starting to forget everything, I have to hurry up if I want someone to know that I ever existed. Anyway, my sister was always the one that took care of me since my mother worked all day and all night, only returning at midnight, exhausted and heading straight to bed.

The poor woman was everything but happy. She could barely afford to raise my sister and me and to top it off, she was addicted to multiple drugs. She was never abusive when she took them though, she was just in an unresponsive state of mind. The addiction began two weeks after my birth, and that also makes it two weeks after my father's death. She could not cope with it properly and thus, drinking and heroin were the only things that could properly help her as she did not have the money for therapy sessions back then.

Even though she promised herself and us that she wouldn't, she became addicted. Drugs are expensive, and she often spends a fortune getting them in order to satisfy her cravings. But she was a kind, caring person. Not really the motherly type, she thought that if she gave us money, we would be happier. She thought that giving us the money she earned would make us feel better than if she hugged us or talked to us. Her intentions were not evil though, she was a good person who just simply did not know how to show empathy properly.

One day, when I was about eight and when my sister was fourteen, I got bored. She had to go to the grocery store, and knowing that I would likely have nothing to do, she gave me her phone, kissed me on the head and left. Like always, my mother was working and I was completely alone. The sound of Amanda closing the door scared me, but as soon as I heard that she finally got out, I ran to my mother's room and started to record immediately. You see, when I was little, I used to film these videos where I pretended to be a journalist named Maya interviewing imaginary politicians and celebrities I made up myself, which were of course, my stuffed animals.

Just as I got to interview the president of an imaginary country, which was strangely a big blue elephant in a pink dress, a notification popped up on my screen saying that I ran out of memory and that I should delete some photos or videos. Of course, I was not going to touch my precious interviews, so I just pressed on the screen to make the pop-up go away. I, being the clumsy little girl I was, accidentally tapped on "Google Chrome” and was greeted by a bunch of pictures of cute pugs and such things. Amanda loved those, and would always show my mom the pictures so she could convince her to get us a dog. My mom, being the responsible adult she was always declined because we could not afford another mouth to feed, and having a dog was both expensive and exhausting.

Yes, my sister was also a responsible person, but not enough to take care of a dog all alone, and my mother, of course, could not help her since she worked all the time. Once I got bored of looking through photos of tiny animals and puppies, I just typed down random letters into the search engine and searched. To my surprise, instead of a bunch of gibberish, the first article that popped up was some kind of website called "The Butterfly Effect” and such a title caught my attention quickly. Back then, I did not really know what that meant, but now, I know more than I should.

I clicked on it, expecting to see a bunch of butterflies, but instead, on the whole page was a big blue butterfly set on a black background, and at the top in white text rested the words, "The Butterfly Effect” and beneath those, was the alphabet and a search engine just like Google's. I was very naive back then, and that caused me to browse through a thousand names, and every time I pressed on a new name, the butterfly changed colors. The pink ones were the prettiest, but the dark purple ones made me uncomfortable.

When I zoomed in, there were white lines all over the butterfly which showed important events in that specific someone's life, their birth, and sometimes even their death was there, describing how they were born, and describing how they met their ends. It always gave me the option to edit, but every time I tried, the notification which stated something along the lines of, "You are not the creator” popped up on the screen, so I gave up.

Before exiting, I wanted to try out one more thing: searching up my name in the search engine, and so I did. The butterfly which showed up when I searched up my name wasn't blue, or purple, or yellow, it was pitch black with white lines. I didn't like that one bit, so I zoomed in. I saw pictures of my birth, my first birthday, I saw everything― I did not find it disturbing though. I found it cool, because back then I was a stupid child and my brain could not process things like that and confirm them as unsettling in any kind of way, shape or form.

I remember everything so clearly now, like it was yesterday. Or maybe it was, I still don't have my memories all in the right place. "Margot Sables was born” was the first line. That one led to another one, "Mark Sables died while rushing to the hospital to see Margot Sables.” That specific line made me very angry at my mother. She never told me how my father died or what was his name. Later, I found out she planned to, but my young brain did not realize her good intentions at the moment, so I kept going down and down the lines.

"Bianca Sables developed an addiction to heroin.” I kept going down and down, "Amanda Sables developed depression.” At the time, I was surprised to hear that about my sister. My very own sister, the cheerful, goofy older sister I grew up with my whole life. I could not believe she had depression. The deeper I got, the darker "my story” was getting. "Amanda Sables killed herself by jumping in front of a car” was the very next line. Over, on top of it was a light blue banner with tiny, white text written in the middle, "Coming soon.”

I was disgusted, so I completely ditched that story and went over to the second wing of the black butterfly, "Margot Sables was born” was also the first line, "Mark Sables took the bus to see Margot Sables” was the second event that came after my birth. That was a completely different story, a completely different life― a life I wanted to be mine, "Bianca Sables got a job at a bank” and my sister, Amanda, was apparently married to a random guy I never knew. And as I scrolled more, I discovered different ways my life could have turned out.

I got married to a Japanese politician at the age of 32 in that story. I had two sons and a daughter, but something was still wrong: I died while giving birth to my daughter and at the top of each event in that story was written the words in red text, "This path was not taken.” And so, I decided to edit my original story a bit― the life I lived then, I wanted to edit it to be the way I wanted it to be. "Margot Sables was born” became, for example, "Margot Sables was born into a wealthy house.” Then, I came across the end of my story, my apparent death, but instead of it saying that I died of old age, in bold, bright red letters was written this:

"MARGOT SABLES IS AN UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BRAT WHO ERASED HERSELF FROM THIS WORLD.”

In a panicked state of shock and fear, I dropped Amanda's phone on the ground and the screen cracked. I jumped down and grabbed the phone, accidentally deleting something very important: my birth. In desperate attempts to edit it back in, I made things even worse by deleting everything that was on there. And as soon as I refreshed the page, the butterfly wasn't black anymore. It was blue, just like before. And at the top, it stated that the person I searched for did not exist. I dropped the phone on the bed and stood up.

And just as I was about to start crying, I heard the door open. I rushed to the hallway only to see a man with brown hair in a neat suit, and my mother greeted him with a smile and a hug. Surprised that she was there, I attempted to grab her by her dress, talk to her, scream at her, but nothing worked. She ignored me, no matter how much I begged for her to answer. My sister, too, hugged the man and addressed him as, "Dad” making me cry even more than I already did when I realized that my own mother did not acknowledge my presence. But what made me gasp in shock was the fact that I was fading away.

My arms, my hands: they were now see-through and blank. I now became grey, I lost all my colors. I was not Margot anymore, I was now just thin air. And I am still trying to find myself right now. I am still stuck in this world where no one can see me, and where I cannot do anything. Where no one knows that I ever existed. I do not know how many years had passed since then, but if I was still existent and if I was still on the face of the Earth, I think I'd be nineteen or twenty. Such a shame, isn't it?

If anyone asks about me, spread the word. Tell them that I exist, or at least that I existed. Tell them Margot Sables existed, please, tell them. I cannot stand this torture anymore, I don't want to be alone anymore. I am broken, lonely, and I am no one, I even forgot how I used to look back when I really existed. Was I a blonde little girl or did I have curly, brown hair? I do not remember, but you should remember me, and if you ever forget me― it will end badly. Please don't forget me, I beg of you.

And whatever you do, don't ever visit a website called "The Butterfly Effect.” Be safe out there, friend.



Written by Languorous
Content is available under CC BY-SA