Prologue

My name is Mariko.

I am seventeen years old.

And in thirty days, I will be murdered by my first love.

I splash the cool water on my face and look in the mirror, checking each side. I don’t look particularly special, plain; maybe above average with the right light or the right camera angle. My hair was styled in a bob a few weeks ago, but I’ve let it grow down to my shoulders. There’s no point in bothering to restyle it any more. I remember—vague memories crawl in, dozens of other Me creep in. Some chose death with dignity. Others fighting until the bitter end. Male, female, whatever. All died. And that face. That god awful face. Handsome and twisted with a wolf’s smile. Horrifying and beautiful all at once. And always there at the end.

My hands grip the sink until they turn white-knuckled, and I grimace, shaking my head as I try to remove the memories. I don’t want to relive them, once was enough but they keep fighting their way in again and again, each demanding attention and tears. It always goes like this before the end.

My name is Mariko. I was born in Japan, first and only daughter to a baker family. We live above the shop, and if you’re paying close attention in the bathroom you can hear the sound from the market street outside, everyone getting their stores set up and ready to sell.

My name is Mariko. I am not Cassandra. I am not Oliver. I am not Renette, Rani, or the blushing bride. I repeat this mantra until the confusion of where I am subsides. Banishing the memories of each in turn.

That’s right, you’ve guessed by now, I’m sure. I’m not just ‘me’. I’m simply the latest instance of ‘me’. The fortieth, I think. Maybe more. It’s hard to keep track… no, it’s more like I don’t want to. Because every life ends before my eighteenth birthday. And it’s always painful.

I am a living curse. A symbol of warped love that I, and I alone, am punished for.

The first love of my first life will kill me.

“Mariko!”