Mr. Haska Forbidden Touch

    Rain poured heavily that night, drumming against the roof of the Adinegara mansion as if thousands of hands were knocking with force. Lightning split the sky again and again, flooding the wide courtyard with blinding white light before leaving behind a suffocating darkness. The house, usually filled with laughter and chatter, now felt like an empty shell haunted by shadows.

On the second floor, inside the grand master bedroom draped with velvet curtains and lit by a glittering chandelier, the body of a woman lay sprawled on the bed. Her nightgown was wrinkled, her long black hair tangled across the pillow. Her eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling. On the marble floor, pill bottles were scattered—some broken, spilling bitter liquid onto the carpet. A pungent mix of chemicals and alcohol filled the air, stinging the nose of anyone who entered.

“Ma….”

The faint voice cracked from the lips of a teenage girl standing in the doorway. Alana, in her thin pajamas and pale face, trembled as if the cold had seeped into her bones. She took hesitant steps, her legs heavy as though refusing to accept what she was seeing. Her hand shook as it reached for her mother’s shoulder.

“Ma, wake up! Please, don’t scare me like this."

She shook the body softly at first, then harder. But the body was cold. Stiff. Motionless.

“Mama!” she screamed in panic, her tears bursting all at once. “Bi…! Bibi, help…!”

Her cries echoed down the hallway. The servants, hearing the desperate voice, rushed into the room. One of the maids covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a scream when she saw their mistress lying lifeless. Another stood frozen in shock, her face turning ghostly pale.

Not long after, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A middle-aged man burst into the room, his tie loose, his suit soaked with raindrops streaming from his shoulders.

“Liana!” he cried out.

Armand Adinegara—Alana’s father—rushed to the bedside. His knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor. His trembling hands clutched his wife’s body, shaking her roughly as if that alone could bring her back.

“N–no…, this is my fault…, all my fault.” His voice was hoarse, his chest heaving uncontrollably. Tears spilled down, soaking his wife’s nightgown.

“Papa…,” Alana sobbed, kneeling beside him. “Papa, don’t say that.”

But the man didn’t hear her. His eyes were empty, locked onto his wife’s lifeless form as if the world had already ended.

“If only I had rejected Ratna, if only I hadn’t been trapped from the very beginning.”

Alana froze. That name. Ratna. A poisonous name that made her heart pound violently. She had only heard whispers, faint rumors in the halls. But that night, the truth spilled straight from her father’s lips.

Armand gripped his own hair, his face twisted in despair. “I killed your mother, Alana. I don’t deserve to live.”

“No, Papa, don’t say that!” Alana clung to his arm, her whole body shaking. “I still need you! I can’t do this alone!”

But as if deaf to his daughter’s desperate cries, the man’s gaze shifted to the nightstand. There, a small fruit knife lay waiting—its blade still wet from the orange he had cut that afternoon.

Armand’s tear-filled eyes fixed on it. His trembling hand reached out.

“Papa! Don’t!!!”

Alana screamed, leaping forward to snatch the knife. Her hands clawed desperately, but she was a heartbeat too late.

In an instant, the blade sank into Armand’s chest.

“Papa!!!”

Her voice shattered, her eyes widening in horror as thick, crimson blood spurted out, soaking the white sheets and splattering across the marble floor. Her father’s body collapsed right in front of her.

“Papa, don’t leave me!” Her trembling hands caught his body, but all she felt was the burning warmth of blood gushing between her fingers. “Help! Somebody help! Take him to the hospital!!!”

One maid screamed hysterically before fainting on the spot. Another scrambled for the telephone, her hands trembling so violently she could barely dial. But it was all too late.

Alana clutched her father’s lifeless body, her sobs breaking into raw cries as she called out for her parents. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood staining her clothes.

Outside the window, the rain grew heavier, thunder splitting the sky once more. That night, Alana’s world collapsed.

“Papa!!!”

“Mama!!!”

Her cries ripped through the storm, her small body drenched in blood as she clung to her father sprawled on the floor. But suddenly, her vision blurred, the room swayed, and then—

TRING! TRING! TRING!

The alarm blared from the small table beside the bed. Alana jolted awake with a violent gasp, her breath ragged as if she had just finished a marathon. Cold sweat drenched her face and the back of her neck, clinging to her skin like ice.

Her eyes darted around wildly. No plush bed with white sheets. No glittering chandelier, no grand bedroom dressed in classical style. Only a cramped boarding room, no more than three by four meters. The paint on the walls was peeling, and a ceiling fan creaked softly above her.

Alana buried her face in her hands. Tears still clung to the corners of her eyes—remnants of a nightmare that had felt far too real.

“Eight years…” she whispered hoarsely, her voice catching in her throat. “Eight years have passed… but it still feels the same.”

She sat at the edge of her narrow bed, drawing in a long breath to calm herself. Her trembling hand reached for the old alarm clock, silencing it with a soft click. Its rusted hands pointed at six o’clock in the morning.

***

    Eight years had gone by since that stormy night. Time moved forward, but the wound in Alana’s heart had never truly healed. The images of her mother’s and father’s bodies still haunted her every night, dragging her into recurring nightmares that left her gasping for air.

Now, at twenty-four, Alana’s life was a far cry from the childhood she once knew. She was no longer the noble girl who grew up amidst glittering jewelry, lavish parties, and the respect of high society. All of it had vanished with her family’s downfall.

What remained was an ordinary young woman, living in a cramped boarding house with paper-thin walls where every sound leaked through. Her part-time jobs as a waitress and freelance assistant barely covered her daily expenses. Even her college tuition was left hanging, with debts that bound her tighter each month.

Yet, one thing had never faded—her hatred.

Every time Alana looked at her reflection in the mirror, she remembered the vow she had made at her parents’ graves. Ratna Prameswari would pay. That woman had stolen everything: her mother’s happiness, her father’s sanity, and the proud name of the Adinegara family.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sharp knocks snapped Alana out of her thoughts. She turned toward the door, her heart pounding fast. She knew exactly who would come this early in the morning.

“Alana! You’re in there, right?” A middle-aged woman’s voice rang from outside the door. Her tone was harsh, full of demand. “It’s the end of the month already. Where’s your rent?”

Alana bit her lower lip. She rose to her feet, slowly walked to the door, and opened it just a crack. From the gap appeared the stern face of her landlady—plump, with piercing eyes that left no room for excuses.

“Ma’am… I’m really sorry,” Alana lowered her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t pay right now. Could you please… give me a few more days?”

The woman folded her arms across her chest and let out a long sigh. “Alana, this happens too often. You know you’re not the only tenant here. Electricity, water—everything needs to be paid. If you keep being late, how am I supposed to cover it?”

Alana bowed deeper, her fingers twisting the edge of her worn-out T-shirt. “I promise, Ma’am. I’ll pay this week. I…, I just got some extra work.”

“Extra work?” The landlady narrowed her eyes, her voice dripping with doubt. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve heard that promise too many times. If I don’t see the money by Sunday, pack your things and leave.”

The words stabbed like a knife. Alana swallowed hard, then quickly nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. I understand.”

The woman snorted before turning away. “I’ll wait until Sunday. Don’t disappoint me again.”

The door closed, leaving Alana standing stiff in her tiny room, her eyes burning as she held back tears. Her body trembled under the weight of pressure. She drew in a long, shaky breath, trying not to break.

Alana sank back onto her narrow bed, her gaze fixed on the small mirror perched on her study desk. Her face looked pale, with dark circles shadowing her tired eyes. She grabbed a comb and pulled it quickly through her long black hair, as if tidying up her appearance could somehow fix the chaos inside her.

In the mirror’s reflection, she stared at herself for a long moment. What looked back at her was the image of a young woman who had lost everything—yet was still standing.

“Ratna…” Her lips trembled, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll make you pay for everything you’ve done.”