That night, she came to the apartment chatting on the phone, her laugh was bubbly and full of cheer.
Anyway, she said out of habit, without lifting her eyes from the screen, "Mum, I'm back," her tone casual and careless. She stepped straight into the kitchen, craving something to eat.
She opened the fridge—and froze. Time seemed to stop. Her mum's head was inside. Completely covered in deep cuts and bruises. Her silky black hair had turned into a disheveled mass, matted and soaked in dried blood.
Her eyes were about to pop out of horror.
She couldn't handle what she saw. Her sight fixed on that frozen face. Her stomach twisted. Her breath caught. Her mind keeps denying. She kept looking for a tiny detail—anything—that would prove it's not Mum. It's a dream. It's a nightmare.
A few minutes passed, then she stepped back—and went into a full-blown, hysterical screaming fit. She ran all over the house, crying, tripping on furniture, banging into walls, and tried to call her mother. She was screaming, begging her to show up.
But no response.
She collapsed, sobbing, her voice hoarse, her throat raw, and started vomiting. But suddenly, she heard it—a sound that didn't belong.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps.
Someone was heading slowly toward the door of the chamber.
Terrified, her limbs went numb. They weren't just cold—they were like ice, frozen in fear. She couldn't turn her head to see. She didn't have time to think properly about what to do.
She just realized—she had to run.
Heart pounding like a war drum, she jumped off the window of the 4th floor.
And after a few seconds... silence.