1. Living a Nightmare

NINA

THE FOREST was suffocating—dense trees shrouded in shadows, branches clawing at my skin as I stumbled through the dark. My breath rasped in my throat, sharp and shallow, the cold air burning my lungs. Gunshots echoed behind me, the sharp crack ricocheting through the night, spurring me faster and harder. My legs screamed for rest, but fear drove me forward.

I didn’t dare look back.

Run.

That was all I could think, the word pounding through my skull in rhythm with my racing heart. The icy wind cut through my clothes, but the adrenaline numbed me to the sting. My feet splashed in the muddy puddles on the forest floor, the frigid water soaking into my shoes and making them heavier, harder to lift.

Another shot rang out, and this time I stumbled, my ankle twisting awkwardly. Pain seared up my leg, but I bit back the scream clawing at my throat. It was nothing compared to the current state of my body.

Keep going. You have to keep running. Or, they will kill your baby. Keep running.

I burst out of the trees and found myself at the edge of a river. Its surface was black and rippling, the current fierce and unrelenting. Behind me, voices shouted, growing louder as they came closer.

A woman screamed. “Run, Nina. Jump!!” My mother.

I looked down at the dark water. It’d hurt. But not worse than what those men will do to me.

It might even kîll me. But not how brutally those men will.

Trapped, with no choice.

The next shot whizzed past my ear, making me stumble forward. And then I was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Ice-cold water swallowed me whole, and my lungs burned as the freezing current dragged me under. The surface shimmered above me, but no matter how hard I kicked, I couldn’t reach it. The river wrapped around me like icy hands, pulling me deeper, suffocating me.

I was drowning.

I am going to die.

I will die.

And the poor innocent life trapped inside me will never get to live, never see the world outside. Maybe it was for the good because this world never had mercy to begin with, only cruelty.

I woke with a gasp, my chest heaving as if I had just breached the river’s surface. My hands clawed at the sheets, damp with sweat, and my eyes darted around the room.

It was just a dream. A nightmare.

No. Not just a nightmare—a memory.

I pressed a trembling hand to my face, wiping away the tears that had streaked down my cheeks. My heart pounded against my ribs, and my throat felt raw, as though I’d been screaming for hours.

I looked around the dimly lit room, the only light coming was from the moon outside the small window and I didn't know what was hiding in the shadows. The familiar prickling sensation on my flesh had my fingers clenching around the blanket as I noticed how still the room was. Too still. Like it was trying to hide something in the dark.

And then I felt it.

The same chill I’d been feeling for a month now, the chill that came with the feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of my neck stood, and I swallowed. My fingers trembled as I reached for the bedside lamp but when I turned it on there was no one in the room, just me.

I scanned the room, my eyes darting to every shadowy corner, but I was alone. At least, that’s what I told myself.

This wasn’t the first time I had woken like this—terrified, gasping for air, convinced someone was there in the room with me, or in the apartment. But there was never anyone. Just the lingering scent of amber, faint but distinct, like a phantom presence that refused to leave. I had almost convinced myself that the apartment had a haunted presence that was following me around.

I rubbed a hand down my face and checked the time. It was already half past eleven so I decided it’d be better for me to just start the day instead of trying to go back to sleep. Not that I could ever sleep peacefully, at least not without the sleeping pills. I wasn’t an addict and I didn't even like taking them. But it was a necessary evil to get the night’s rest, a good sleep, every now and then when I really felt the need to give my mind some rest from its insistent chaos.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, my knees wobbling for a second as if I was still submerged in the water. “Get it together, Nina,” I whispered, forcing my voice steady.

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I padded to the bathroom. After using the toilet, I brushed my teeth and stared at my reflection as I stood there in front of the bathroom mirror.

The face staring back at me in the cracked mirror was pale and gaunt, dark circles etched under her eyes. I barely recognized her. No, that wasn’t right. I’d actually never known her to begin with. I only knew about the woman staring back at me what I was told, not anything that I remembered.

I touched the years old gash at the side of my head, three inches behind my right ear, now completely hidden by my black hair. It was at least five inches long, it was a miracle that I survived but not without lifelong consequences. It was the reason, I’d lost my memories and the only thing I remembered was that nightmare that keeps playing in my mind on a loop. The doctor said it was unlikely that I’ll ever get my memories back. The woman: my mother, she told me she was my mother, had told me it’d be better for me if I didn’t. I believed her. And never even tried to get my memories back.

I washed my face to get rid of that haunted look in my dual colored eyes. I hated them because for a woman who wanted to stay hidden and not be found, they set me apart, made me distinguishable. With one eye as black as it could be, and another with a hint of silver in them made people pause and look closely at me. Another reason why I stayed in my apartment when I wasn’t juggling two different jobs, to stay away from public eye.

Grabbing the small towel from its hanger, I wiped my face and made my way out. I walked out of the bedroom into the tiny living room of my apartment. It was sparsely furnished—a second-hand couch, a rickety table, and a few mismatched chairs. The walls were bare, the paint peeling in some corners. It was the kind of place you didn’t put roots down in. The kind of place you could leave at a moment’s notice. The kind of place where someone like me lives.

I checked the locks on the front door for the sake of it and like always I found them as they should be. Locked each one of them. Total three, because I was paranoid and believed that I’ve a stalker who watched me even in my sleep. But despite the possibility of having a stalker or not, I was afraid of being found by the men I was indebted to. Those men would sell me for their money, but not before they get their own pound of flesh. And I didn’t have their money to give them back. Every penny I had, even the hundreds of thousands I took on loan, was spent to keep a heart beating, to make sure he still breathes.

It wasn’t until I met Antonio Rossi that I was able to relax and not worry about the money where my little heartbeat was concerned. But my pride stopped me from telling him about the thugs I’d taken loan from. Even when he offered me a job at one of his restaurants, I didn’t come clean and kept my dirty secret. I was scared that he’d know the extent of my bad luck, and the crappy life I lived, that he won’t help me anymore if he learned about the bad, ill reputable men I had associated with.

But now, I was afraid what those men will do when they catch up to me and didn’t get their money. The last time they’d come for their money, I had gotten a broken arm and a bruised face, and threats of worse hurled at me. I didn’t have it in me to go through that again.

Shaking those depressing thoughts, I picked up my phone from the kitchen counter and checked the texts knowing no one was there to check up on me. But still when I saw Riley’s text waiting for me, a small smile graced my lips.

RILEY: Hey, hon... Let’s meet, I miss you.

I sighed, guilt twisting in my chest. I hadn’t seen Riley in weeks, too consumed with work and keeping my head down. She didn’t deserve that, not after everything she’d helped me with. She had been my roommate until she moved out to be with her boyfriends, and she was the only person I considered friend.

I typed a reply and sent it. ‘I miss you too. Will tell you when I’m free from my shifts.’ I put the phone back on the counter and made myself a cup of coffee.

A few minutes later, with my cup of coffee in hand, I picked up my phone again. This time going to the thread of messages, I shared with an unknown number I'd saved as Mr Wrong. And as I read our last exchange, it had my heart kicking up a beat in my chest and my cheeks warming.

Mr WRONG: I hadn't fucked a woman in over a decade.

NINA: What about men?

I didn’t know what had come over me to ask such a question. The man was expressing his sexual frustration and I was imagining a faceless man with another one. But then he had responded, and I had been unable to stop thinking about it.

Mr WRONG: I might’ve.

I had been unable to respond to that and he hadn’t sent any text after that one.

Mr Wrong got his name for the obvious reasons, one faithful night I received a rather heated and maybe a drunk text from him. ‘I hate you. I hate you with everything in me and I wish one of us die before I face you again.’

When I texted back that it was a wrong number and wrong person, instead of stopping Mr Wrong had started making conversation with me. Not a regular one either. His messages came in sporadic manner. Sometimes, he’ll disappear for weeks, sometimes days and sometimes he’ll text throughout the day. One of those times, because I’d started to look forward to his texts, I’d asked him if I was talking to a serial killer or a really old man with a taste for young women.

He had responded with, “So, you’re a young woman? How young are you to my thirty seven?”

He answered my question. But I didn’t have an answer for him. Because I didn’t know. I didn't remember. It had made me put my phone down and leave the text on read.

After a day, he had messaged, “Did you get offended because I asked for your age? My apologies, just wanted to know that I’m not going to scar a young teenager with my upcoming texts.”

NINA: I am old enough.

NINA: If you’re going to continue texting me, you might as well tell me your name. My name is Nina. What’s yours?

He didn’t tell me his name but I’d already told him mine. And, for some reason I thought it didn’t matter if he knew my name. Only a few people knew of my existence anyway so it felt nice that one more person knew I existed.

Sometimes he asks me these hypothetical questions and sometimes philosophical ones. And, sometimes, he tells me about the things he wanted to do to his woman who cheated on him. Often times, it makes me blush, his words and the things he describes. Most of the time I feel his pain and anger in his words, wrapped up in dark suggestions and twisted words.

But more importantly, even though I liked talking to him and we might’ve formed a sort of friendship, I felt afraid for the woman he was so fixated on. I felt afraid of the way I could sense him switching up, from flirtatious to downright psychopath, even on texts, like he has a dual personality. Especially it happened the few times whenever I started the conversation and shared how I felt, so I stopped doing that. Now we only talk about what he wants to talk about.

And I should probably stop entertaining him when he only wanted to share his side of the things, what he wanted, what he was thinking, what he was feeling, like I was someone he wanted to vent to. It was a one way street with him and I didn't have any freedom to share my own thoughts because then he turns rude. But I never stopped, because I was a pathetic loser who was so lonely that she was taking crap from an unknown man and listening to his angry rants and sexual fantasies.

I exited the text thread, I wasn’t going to text him, and put my phone down after checking the time. 12:30 p.m.

Time to get ready for work and start the same day I’d been living since last six months.

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A. Gupta