Aadita, The Hated Luna

"Hmm," I moaned in my sleep, turning on the tattered, filthy mattress. My cheek brushed against the warm, sticky blood seeping from the wound on my shoulder.

The biting cold of the dim, desolate basement cut through the too-small, paper-thin nightgown that clung to my 18-year-old frame. Startled by the sharp pang in my shoulder, I opened my eyes but remained motionless, listening to the groaning pipes and the scurrying of a mouse in the shadows. I envisioned myself as that elusive mouse, hidden in the unreachable nooks of the house, a brief moment of imagined safety.

Quietly assessing my surroundings to ensure he wasn't lurking nearby, ready to unleash more punishment, I breathed a sigh of relief. With only spiders spinning their webs in the dark corners of my room—my personal chamber of torment—for company, I shifted onto my back, tracing my fingers over the jagged wounds.

The creaking floorboards above echoed with each step, a chilling reminder of past horrors. My heart raced, and I suppressed a whimper, fearing his return. Was that a light step, perhaps my brother?

Taking inventory of my injuries, I bit down on my lip to muffle the agony, knowing any sound would invite further suffering. Every part of my body throbbed with persistent pain, sharp jolts shooting through my shoulder and arm. Tears welled up as I gazed at the faint morning light filtering through the basement window, a tear streaking down my dirt-streaked cheek. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, I resisted.

Lost in the oppressive silence, I found myself ensnared in the recurring dream that plagued me. The man with dark hair tied in a loose bun atop his head captivated me, his features both alluring and terrifying.

As the dream unfolded, I oscillated between desire and fear, my body trembling with dread. Who was this enigmatic man who stirred up such conflicting emotions within me, leaving me yearning yet terrified? The emotional turmoil of the dream consumed me, a potent dr*g I couldn't resist.

Surely, this man must have held significance. The persistent haunting stemmed from the belief that there must be a profound, life-altering message behind it. Perhaps a glimmer of hope. Despite my efforts, unraveling the elusive meaning remained beyond my grasp. The dream would either fade upon waking or dissolve into a murky haze, plunging me back into the nightmares born from the daily torment of my personal hell.

I shifted onto my knees, reaching out to the wall for support. A wave of dizziness swept over me, my stomach churning in protest. Grimacing, I shut my eyes, holding my breath until the room ceased its disorienting spin. With cautious steps, leaning on the rough cinderblock wall, I made my way to the cramped bathroom nestled beneath the basement stairs.

The dingy space housed a small sink protruding from the wall with a lone faucet. Opposite the sink sat a stained toilet, leaving scarce room for movement between them. The masonry walls bore dark streaks of mold, traversed by millipedes whose legs propelled them forward. I paid them no mind. Turning on the water, I cleansed the dried blood from my body, tending to my wound with a tight bandage to staunch the flow, but nothing more.

Leaning on the sink for stability, another bout of dizziness seized me. Unable to suppress the rising bile in my throat, I gagged, bending over the toilet to expel foamy acid and a trace of blood into the water. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I turned on the sink, cupping my hands under the water, oblivious to the dirt and dried blood clinging to my jagged nails.

Sipping from my cupped hands, I caught my reflection in the tin mirror above the sink. Swirling the water in my mouth, I paused. Examining each feature of my face, a sound of disgust escaped me, culminating in spitting the water at my mirrored self.

'You are weak,' I chided myself. Weak and feeble. Pathetic.

Gathering my thoughts, I delved into the memories of the day my secure world crumbled into the harrowing reality that followed. Fragmented recollections of my twelve-year-old self emerged, hands drenched in blood, drowning in the metallic scent of despair. My mother's lifeless form lay before me, her radiant locks framing her head like an angel, untouched by the carnage below.

I remembered nothing after I left my bedroom to investigate the commotion upstairs. In one moment, my mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner while I diligently worked on my homework in my room. The lilac walls and cream comforter created a sense of maturity and solace in my sanctuary, where I could study, converse with friends, and daydream undisturbed by my younger brother.

Lost in my world, with headphones in and Britney Spear's melodies playing on my iPod, I absentmindedly swayed to the music's rhythm as I penned an essay on my favorite sport. Though English wasn't my preferred subject, writing about topics of significance or personal interest made it bearable.

As the playlist transitioned to the next track, a sudden crash followed by my mother's alarmed voice pierced the silence. Assuming it was merely my brother causing mischief or my father engaging in playful antics, I dismissed it and returned to my work.

For the next four minutes and two seconds, the incident slipped from my thoughts. However, the subsequent pause between songs ushered in sounds of panic and dread seeping under my bedroom door. A shattering noise echoed, accompanied by my mother's cries of terror and desperation. Her pleas, her anguish, reverberated within me, haunting my nights with relentless nightmares.

Tossing aside my headphones, I sprang to my feet and bolted out of the room, driven by instinct and fear. That was the last recollection I held of that ominous day...until the aftermath unfolded.

The next memory unveiled me at the harrowing scene of my mother's brutal murder. Clad in her blood, the once-white dress now stained a vivid crimson, I stood in a state of shock and paralysis, devoid of speech or movement.

Clutching the murder weapon, my fingertips imprinted in the blood splatters on its handle, I was seized and shaken violently as demands for answers echoed around me—answers I could not provide. My father's gaze bore a mix of terror and disbelief as he uttered the chilling question...

'What have you done?'