The nightmare I dream of

The room

I stretch out and feel the soft, fresh sheets like a comforting embrace around me, while my head rests on a pillow as fluffy as a cloud of feathers. The warm spring sun tingles my skin and I turn over, longing to stay here forever. But where is here? A sudden wave of panic creeps into my consciousness. My eyes snap open and I quickly sit up, leaning against the headboard of the bed. Around me towers an imposing dark wooden canopy bed, shrouded in graceful white tulle that gently sways in the breeze. Everything is strange and unfamiliar. Where am I?

I pull the sheets off me and push the tulle aside. As I take in the room, my gaze falls on the large window with heavy dark red curtains next to the bed. I go over to it and see expansive grasslands stretching out for miles. A feeling of unease creeps over me. Even if I left this house, I would still be visible for miles, an ominous thought that sends a sense of discomfort through my body.

The rest of the room is sparsely furnished: a wardrobe and a painting of a harbor on the darkred wall. On the wooden floor lies a dark red carpet with patterns. I do not dare to open the door that seems to lead to the exit of the room, afraid it might be locked. Better not open the box, like Schrödinger's cat. I walk to the door with a sign depicting a bath. I turn the handle and feel the cold metal under my hand. The door clicks open. Through the crack, I see a beautiful bathroom with dark stone walls, a large dark wooden sink, and a bathtub on golden legs.

In the bathroom, I see my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The first thing I notice is that I don't look like a fifteen-year-old. I look further at my renewed self, compared to just a year ago: a deer-shaped face, light brown eyes, thin eyebrows, long hazelnut-colored hair—an unremarkable face, one of many. My hand slides over my new waist and muscles. I can hardly believe that I am the person in the mirror.

Suddenly, I notice a mark under my striped pajama pants. I slightly pull down the pants and discover stretch marks on my hips, almost faded but still visible. Traces of a former self. Further on my back, I see thick scars. Dozens of straight, deep lines cover my lower back, as if they were deliberately made. Although I've carried them for as long as I can remember, I still don't know where they came from.

I re-enter the room. Just as I'm about to explore further, the handle of the other door turns. All my muscles tense as my eyes fixate on the opening door. In the doorway stands a young guy, no older than twenty and at least one meter ninety. His clothes have clearly seen better days; his t-shirt was probably once white and is now full of small holes. The ends of his dark jeans are frayed, and his leather jacket and ochre boots seem almost older than I am. He sharply contrasts with the sophisticated interior. Beneath his clothes, he has the build of a brute warrior, his light brown eyes lock directly onto mine, making me swallow involuntarily. He runs his hand through his short, messy light brown hair as he leans casually against the door frame. A shiver of fear runs down my spine, resonating through every fiber of my being. Without understanding why, the hairs on my neck stand up, as if my instincts are screaming at me to flee.

He pushes off the door frame smoothly and takes a slow step forward, followed by another. I cautiously move backward, step by step, but he keeps advancing. The sound of his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor fills the room, followed by a dull thud indicating I've reached the wall and can't retreat further. He approaches with unflinching calm. A grin spreads across his face, and my body begins to tremble. I stiffen; I am pinned to the wall as he inexorably draws closer. My head floods with memories and scenarios of girls trying to fight but simply not being strong enough. No matter how hard I try to dispel them, they refuse to go away. Tears prick behind my eyes, but I squeeze my eyelids shut to hold them back. My heartbeat quickens, almost deafening in the room's silence. It would be easy to succumb to the panic filling my chest, but I refuse to give in to the fear gripping my heart like a cold, constricting vise.