shattered souls By Afsheen k.

The first meet

Irha ali

  I’m walking down the street, leaving the Rivera's house behind. Today was my turn to babysit their twins, and as much as I adore kids, those two are the biggest pains in the A-S-S. They always give me a hard time. I’m never going back there, no matter what. It might hurt their mom because she trusts me with her kids, but my mental health is more important!

I've been working as a nanny for the past three months through an organization called Nannys.in. They assign you to a family, and you show up at their address to babysit. I never imagined I’d be living in another country, working as a nanny, but life has a way of surprising you. London is a sprawling city, teeming with people chasing dreams and goals. It’s tough to make friends here; everyone is so caught up in their own lives. But, I made it out of India, and now I’m finally studying English Literature in London. Babysitting is my part-time gig to cover the bills and all—it pays well, so I can’t complain, even though kids can be annoying sometimes.

Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly hear a cry. I glance around the empty street, thinking it’s just my imagination, but then I hear it again. This time, I follow the sound and find a little boy, about 5 or 6 years old, sobbing by a car. The door is open, and he’s banging the side with his small hand.

“Daddy, wake up! I’m scared, please!” he cries.

No one else is around, so I approach him and kneel down in front of him. His eyes widen as he looks up at me.

“Hey there, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” I ask gently.

“Daddy’s not waking up. Can you please wake him up?” he sniffles, his voice trembling.

I peek inside the car and see a man slumped over in the driver's seat, a bottle clutched in his hand—probably alcohol. He’s wearing a white shirt and black pants, his sleeves rolled up, veins prominent beneath his skin. Despite the mess he’s in, there’s something striking about him—so peaceful, even though he’s clearly troubled.

But before I can fully process my thoughts, the little boy tugs at my sleeve.

“H-hey, please help my daddy,” he pleads.

I snap out of it. “Okay, okay, but first, tell me what happened.”

“Daddy said we were going to get ice cream, but then he stopped the car. He told me to get out and wait for him, but now he won’t wake up,” the boy explains, tears welling in his eyes.

It’s obvious—his father must have passed out from drinking. The bottle is empty.

I hesitantly reached for the car door, not surprised to find it unlocked.

I tap on the car door. “Uh, hey! Mister, can you hear me?”

No response. I try again, louder. “Hello? Wake up! Your kid is crying!”

Nothing. Desperate, I shake his leg. “Come on, wake up! Your son needs you!”

The man groans and slowly opens his eyes. The moment he looks at me, I’m done for. His eyes are the deepest shade of green, like an enchanting forest. But beneath the beauty, there’s a sadness that I can’t ignore. I wonder what happened to make him end up like this—a beautiful tragedy.

Fully awake now, he suddenly leans close, his face just inches from mine.

“Who the fuck are you?” he slurs, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath, but there’s something else too—a hint of cinnamon and wood.

I back away, hands up in surrender. “Woah, calm down! I was just trying to help.”

“Daddy!” The little boy clings to his father. “I thought you were a ghost again!”

Again? My heart sinks. This poor kid doesn’t deserve any of this.

“How could you be so reckless?” I burst out. “Drinking and driving with a child in the car? Do you have any idea what could have happened? One mistake, and you both could’ve been—” I stop myself, shaking with anger.

He just stares at me, as if trying to figure me out, then calmly picks up his son and places him on the seat.

“Not that I need your opinion, miss, but thanks for helping my child,” he says, his tone cold and dismissive. With that, he shuts the door and drives off, leaving me standing there, stunned.

“The audacity!” I fume. “What a punk! An idiot! A—”

People on the street start giving me odd looks, but I don’t care. My face is flushed with anger. I swear, if I ever cross paths with that man again, I don’t know what I’ll do.