"No… no… nooooo!"
(I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved, heart racing like it wanted to leap out of my body).
Again.
That same dream.
That same… man.
(His face always blurry — eyes cold, voice distant — sometimes he's standing in the shadows, sometimes inside a car… and always, always… there's chaos around him. People screaming. Tires screeching. Blood. Silence).
Why me?
(Doctors say it's just side effects of the accident — trauma painting nightmares across my sleep. But how do I tell them it doesn't feel like just a dream?)
It feels like… memories.
(I pulled the blanket off and slid my feet to the floor. The chill of the wooden boards grounded me. I walked over to the window and pushed it open).
(Sunlight poured in like honey, golden and soft).
Birds chirped.
(The breeze carried the scent of wet earth and quiet mornings).
(This — this was the only part of my day that felt real).
I closed my eyes and let it wash over me.
Then, slowly, I turned to my desk.
(The small drawer creaked as I opened it. Inside, my diary waited — its cover worn, the pages filled with chaos, dreams, and confusion).
I sat down, pen in hand. My fingers moved without pause, as if they knew what my mind didn't.
Words flowed, weaving together the dream:-
A car speeding at 100…
A kitten crossing the road…
The man…
The black car following him — stalking him.
(Why do these fragments feel so familiar?
Why does my hand know the curve of this story when my mind screams that I don't)?
[Every night, it's the same.
Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place…
But never the full picture.
Not yet].
I paused.
What if this isn't a dream?
What if it's something more?
I looked down at the page.
The ink had smudged where my fingers trembled.
But the story… it was still there.
And deep inside me —
A whisper.
You're part of it...
(As I closed my diary — still unfinished, pages whispering secrets I hadn't yet unlocked — I let out a slow breath).
"I want to gather myself," I muttered, fingers grazing the ink.
"I want to know why these dreams keep haunting me. If I can't remember... maybe writing will lead me there."
(I placed the diary back inside the drawer and locked it with a soft click. The brass key felt heavier than usual in my palm, like it carried a piece of me inside).
Then —
"Lena, dear! Come downstairs!"
(My mother's voice echoed from below, slicing through the silence).
I called back, "Yes, Mom! I'm coming!"
(I left the shadows of my room behind and headed down to the kitchen, where sunlight spilled across the tiled floor like a golden welcome)
{Standing by the stove was Margaret — the woman I now called Mom}.
(She had soft white-blonde hair brushing her shoulders, sky-blue eyes that sparkled with warmth, and skin so pale it looked like porcelain kissed by light).
In her 50s, but still strikingly beautiful.
I smiled. "Morning, Mom. How's your day going?"
(She turned and beamed at me, her voice gentle).
"Oh, good morning, dear. You slept well, right?"
(I nodded, lying through my teeth).
"Yeah… I did."
(Truth was, I hadn't slept well in weeks).
My eyes flicked to the stove. "So… you called me?"
She chuckled lightly. "Ah yes, I forgot! I'm making omelets this morning. Can you fetch six eggs from the chicken barn?"
I laughed softly. "Six eggs? Got it. I'm on it."
(With a playful wink, I stepped outside into the morning air).
(The backyard was a vision — green and golden, kissed by dew. Our modest farm sat just beyond the garden: a chicken barn, a pair of majestic horses, and Mom's beloved kitchen garden, blooming with fresh herbs and tomatoes).
It was peaceful here. Almost too peaceful.
(As I stepped into the chicken barn, a flurry of flapping wings greeted me.
We had about 60 chickens now, and the neighbors often bought eggs from us. It was a good little business. A simple one.
Nothing like the twisted mess in my dreams).
(I moved between the clucking birds with practiced ease).
Two eggs from one nest.
Three from another.
One more from the far end.
(Clutching the six warm eggs in my hands, I made my way back out, the sun beginning to rise fully behind me — bright, calm, and unaware of the storm still brewing in my mind).
I don't know who I am now.
(But when I woke up again, after the doctor gave me that injection, my world was a blur).
(The hospital lights felt too bright… the silence too loud).
And then—
(I saw them).
Two people.
(An old couple standing near my bed, smiling at me with eyes full of warmth… like they knew me).
Like I belonged to them.
(They spoke softly, telling me things—things I couldn't believe) .
(Things I didn't know if I should believe).
And me?
(I just sat there, still and silent, like a doll propped up on a bed).
No answers.
No name.
"But one question keeps echoing in my mind...
Who am I? And is any of this even real?????.....
[Scene fades to black]
________________________________________
"Sometimes dreams tell us the truth… but
we don't know it's true or not." 🌙✨
"Stalked to my own Story"
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🎀Author's Note🎀
Hey dear readers! 🙇♀️
How are you all doing? I hope you're enjoying the story so far! 💫
If you are, please please please...don't forget to leave a comment — I'd love to hear your thoughts, feelings, and theories. What do you think will happen next? How do you feel about the twists so far?
Your feedback truly means a lot to me.
And if you're enjoying this journey, please add the novel to your collection, rate it, and keep supporting. 💖
More suspense, emotion, and drama are on the way!
Stay safe, stay happy, and… peace out. ✨