Nyara pov
The past few days had been a quiet rhythm of normalcy. Iyla and I had spent our time in the warm, familiar confines of our apartment. We'd baked cookies, painted vibrant pictures, and lost ourselves in the silly antics of cartoons. Iyla's laughter, bright and innocent, filled the small space, a balm to the anxieties that gnawed at me.
My phone, however, remained stubbornly silent. My family's persistent calls, their voicemails filled with worry and concern, were a constant, nagging presence. A wave of guilt washed over me each time I saw their numbers flash across the screen. I knew I should answer, explain, reassure them. But the fear, the paralyzing dread of their judgment, held me captive.
How could I explain Iyla? How could I explain that I had a child, a beautiful, vibrant little girl, and I had no memory of her birth, or her father? The thought of their reactions, their questions, their inevitable disappointment, was too much to bear. It was easier to hide, to pretend that everything was fine, even though it wasn't.
But the silence was taking its toll. It was a heavy weight, a constant reminder of the secrets I was keeping. And then, there were the nightmares. Laying next to a sleeping Iyla on the bed I hope there is no nightmare tonight. Falling into a deep sleep
Nightmare
The world was a jagged, broken thing. Every breath was a ragged gasp, every footfall a desperate, pounding rhythm against the unforgiving earth. I held her, a small, precious weight, pressed against my chest, her heartbeat a frantic counterpoint to the thunder in my ears. The shadows danced around us, a swirling vortex of malevolence, their presence a suffocating pressure. I couldn't see their faces, but I felt their hunger, their intent, a cold, predatory gaze that burned into my back.
Each step was a searing agony, a raw, burning pain that spread through my limbs, a constant, throbbing reminder of the wounds they had inflicted. Blood soaked my clothes, a sticky, warm reminder of the life that was draining away. But I wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop. I had to protect her.
Then, the world shattered. A cold, sharp intrusion, a searing, white-hot pain that ripped through me, stealing my breath, my strength. It was a final, brutal blow, a death sentence delivered with cruel precision.
Even as the darkness threatened to consume me, her small arms tightened around my neck, a desperate, almost pleading embrace. And I saw her face. Iyla's face. Her eyes, wide and terrified, reflected the horror of our shared fate. "It hurts, mommy," she whispered, her voice a broken, fragile sound, a final, heartbreaking plea.
Her eyes flickered, then closed, her small body going limp, a dead weight in my arms. A scream tore through my throat, a raw, primal sound of grief and despair, a sound that echoed the very depths of my soul. I was trapped, impaled, her lifeless form a cruel, unbearable burden.
"No! No, why?" I screamed, my voice a broken, desperate plea against the encroaching darkness. Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious, a futile attempt to wash away the horror that surrounded us. "Why did they do this?"
The darkness pressed in, a suffocating blanket of despair, a cold, empty void that threatened to swallow us whole. The world was a blur of pain and loss, a terrifying echo of a past I couldn't understand, a present I couldn't escape.