One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: ??????, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Chapter One
Ah-Ri
I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are lifeless, and my body feels hollow as my stomach growls. I want food so bad it’s all I can think about. I squeeze my eyes shut again and brace my palms against the sink.
I have no choice.
Being from the States with an American mom and a Korean dad doesn’t actually help me in this situation, even though I’ve always thought of myself as Korean.
The only reason we went to LA was because of my dad’s job, and I only stayed there for six years before coming back home.
It was enough, though.
Enough to make me different. Enough to make people look at me funny during school and ask why my Korean sounded a bit strange.
Enough for people during my idol training to judge me, though I don’t know why. Then again, that’s the job, right? Everyone competing for a few spots at the label and dying to make it—literally.