Born Wrong

01. a girl who saved a boy

Kala Roshan

I am just bad luck.

Rihaan warned me that he was working the late shift and wasn't going to be home until early dawn. He rarely does this. Most times, he books the early shifts to avoid the possibilities of me being home alone.

It wasn't like I couldn't take care of myself but we live in a relatively bad neighborhood. The type where rent was cheap, the small balcony attached to our apartment was decor rather than an actual lounge, gunshots fired were not uncommon, and the occasional knock from unsuspecting guests could either be a friendly neighbor or an addict searching for a plug.

Rihaan's forewarning was a notice, that perhaps the next course of action was to stay with a friend overnight.

Rihaan also based his assumption on the idea that I had other friends outside of him. That I had someone I was close enough with to dial up at the spur of a moment, casually ask to stay over the night and be supplied an affirmative yes.

He thinks I'm some social butterfly.

Rather than ruin his perception of who I am, I told him I could handle it. We've survived through the night before with no issues, and I have walked home in the dark at the stroke of midnight without an encounter. One night at the apartment alone wasn't going to be a big challenge. We've been living here for a couple months now but I knew all the right precautions to take: don't stand too close to the windows, close the blinds when the sun goes down, and turn on the light in the living room bright enough for passing strangers to assume someone was home and alert.

It was one night, how bad could it be?

I didn't expect a knock.

Not a casual one-click knock that could be a mistake from a drunk neighbor trying to find his keys and seeking assistance, but a heavy, gruff bang against the solid door that I'm pretty sure could be knocked down within three-to-four knocks of the same strength.

Of course it would come on the day I was home alone.

I was just trying to eat cereal.

Freezing in my spot, I held the spoon over the bowl of soggy off-brand cheerios and did nothing. It was as if I assumed any slight movement within the depth of my apartment would alert the aggressive stranger of my presence and therefore afford another knock.

Knock.

"Ohmygod," I mutter in panic, dropping the clanking spoon onto the counter of the kitchen peninsula and twisting in my socks against the smooth wooden tiles. I take a moment to devise a plan.

I should go to my room and hideout in a corner—or do I hide in Rihaan's room instead? If I were to die tonight, by the hand of a small-timed burglar, would I want to be found in the depth of my tiny, nicely-made bedroom or my brother's room?

Then, it dawned on me.

The bats.

I run to Rihaan's room in a slippery haste and make a direct bee-line to the corner where he stashes his row of bats from his time in varsity baseball. I wield the wooden weapon over my shoulders—taken off-guard by the heaviness—and step back outside to the open floorplan of my apartment, approaching the door with cautious steps.

Knock.

This time, with more anger.

"Come on, Ri," the intruder groans, the pounding of the door growing more consistent but in smaller magnitude. "Let me in."

I don't know what compelled me to do what I did next because instead of being quiet, alert and smart like a normal person during a potential home invasion, I go: "no."