A dark caption.

Ah, Sophie, my dear, dear granddaughter. You never really understood these things, did you? I can't blame you as much as I want to. Much of the blame goes to your father. Had you took after your mother, my daughter, it would have been so much better, but that was never going to be, was it? My poor Ingrid, gone before her time. Had she not died when you were two, maybe things would have turned out different. Maybe you wouldn't have been like your father.

And maybe, just maybe, none of this would have happened.

I do share in the blame. I could have been more active with you. I could have been in your life more. I did try to do that, but it seemed like nothing I did seemed to work out and so I did pay more attention to the other grandchildren. That was a mistake now in retrospect, and I suspect your father had a hand in making sure I was never around for a lot of that. He always seemed to suggest that I was forgetful, but it seemed that no message of his ever got through, texts never arrived on time, and calls just seemed to drop when he was talking. Strange, as I had no issue with an other relative. Just him.

But, what is done is done, I think. You grew up, and by the time you were twenty-one, only then did the calls and texts from you father seem to come through clearly and consistently. But it was too late for you, wasn't it? You had already grown to have that anger against me. I don't think I truly realized it until after all of this, unpleasantness.

So, you were twenty-one when you started to work for me, just after we supposedly reconciled. You positioned yourself well, taking the right classes, meeting the right people, making sure you were a young, ambitious type. It didn't hurt you knew how to manipulate men around you by your looks. I'm not a fool, I know some of those deals and alliances weren't all dry diplomacy, and I even admonished you for it, but it did help the company, my family's legacy and likely your legacy.

The weird thing is, you would have only had to wait a three or four more years. I was up there in age, past seventy. I was looking to retire anyway soon. All you had to do was just bide your time and you would have been perfect, a young, intelligent, dynamic force that could really take it places!

So, why didn't you? Was it your father, or your own ambition? Why did you feel the need to use the poison, Sophie? Did you think the solution was to end my life? Could you not... no, I've been over that, I will not repeat myself, I fear I have too many times with this, no, you couldn't wait.

I only began to suspect something when I saw you with my coffee just a couple of weeks ago. You didn't think I noticed it, you slipping that powder in? I didn't drink it, did you know that? I had it tested. That was why my body was failing, why my organs were shutting down. All thanks to you.

I knew on that day I was effectively dead, but still amongst the living. At least, that was how I imagined myself until my friend told me about a way to save my life. He warned me of the terrible cost.

That cost wasn't so terrible, now was it? At least, it wasn't for me. A compatible donor body. Family would be best. When we asked the doctor, she refused, would not even consider it, at least until I proved what you had done. She was still morally conflicted, but she did agree to it.

Luring you was easy, since you were so close to me all the time. You had to be. You know, my plan was to wait for a day where you were dressed a bit more casually, to make this easier on me, but I admit this black skirt suit does have a great sense of feminine style and business acumen to it. The splash of color in your blood-red shirt like how a man does it with a tie, those no-nonsense pantyhose and heels, very much the women's equivalent to a power suit.

Then it was my turn. I slipped something in your drink. Too easy as you didn't suspect me of knowing about this.

You never did wake up, or I should say you haven't woken up yet, and here you are, dying in a hospital bed, attached to machines wearing just a hospital gown. I regret that it led to all this, but I don't regret the act itself. You left me little choice. It was my life or yours. Now, you get to die instead. You get to have your head on my body. You get to lay there, unconscious, as they keep you alive. You'll wake up, but how long do you have? A month? Maybe?

Now me, here I am, standing here on your heels, your arms folded against your breasts wearing your best skirt suit, about to walk out of here. Of course people will talk, people will speculate on how I ended up with my head on a woman's body and whatever became of my granddaughter. I may do one of two things. The first is make up a convenient story, maybe about an accident between the two of us that led to this. That could work. The other is the truth. Which, I wonder, do you want the world to know? I'll have to ask you when you wake up. I do wonder about all that.