Zeynep
To those who think mistakes are a burden and end up hurting themselves.
Book 1 in the Whispers Series
@inkitbooks
Run
Run.
Run.
I ran with everything I had, my heart pounding like a hammer in my chest, each breath burning my lungs like they’d caught fire. My feet felt numb like they were barely even mine, yet they kept moving, pushing me forward, faster and faster.
The ground beneath me was soft and treacherous, thick mud pulling at my shoes, sucking me down with each step. The icy wind slashed across my face, freezing my skin and numbing my fingers, which I held clenched at my sides.
But I couldn’t stop. The sound of footsteps echoed behind me, gaining ground, closer and louder, an unrelenting chase that spurred me to move faster. I knew who was following me—I’d recognize those faces anywhere.
They haunted me, each expression burned into my memory like scars. They were the ones who had broken me, judged me, and tormented me when I was already fragile, already breaking under the weight of my own fears.
Images of their faces flickered through my mind, vivid and harsh. I could see them sneering, their eyes hard and unyielding. Every one of them had looked at me as if I were nothing. Less than nothing. My throat closed, a stinging burn rising in my chest, but I forced myself to keep running, even as tears blurred my vision. I had to escape—escape them, escape the past, escape the memories.
But then, from somewhere up ahead, a sound cut through the darkness. A woman’s cry, soft and sorrowful, hung in the air like a fog that thickened around me. I froze mid-step, my pulse pounding in my ears. The footsteps behind me stopped, the night falling silent.
Only the soft sobs of the woman reached me, a haunting, broken sound that wrapped around me like cold fingers.
I looked around, the darkness beginning to dissolve, giving way to a thick, swirling mist. Shadows faded, and suddenly, I wasn’t on that cold, muddy ground anymore.
I was in my home. Our kitchen stretched out before me, dimly lit and filled with familiar clutter, the worn table, the chipped mug my mother always used, and the half-empty spice rack my brother insisted on organizing. I blinked, disoriented, as I took in the quiet scene.
My mother stood by the sink, her back to me, her shoulders hunched as she scrubbed a plate in the running water. The sobbing, her sobbing filled the room, low and trembling, as if her heart were breaking with every sound.
“Anne…” I whispered, my voice barely audible, as if afraid to disturb her. She was crying because of me again. My leaving, my mistakes, she’d been carrying this weight for so long, but I had left it behind me, hadn’t I? I’d left everyone behind, convinced that cutting ties would end the pain. Yet here she was, suffering still. Why, Anne? Why are you still crying?*
I wanted to reach out, to tell her everything would be okay, to make her see I was right here. But before I could take a step, another voice broke the silence.
“Anne!.…. Anne, where are you?” The voice was familiar, so familiar it stopped me cold. It was my own voice or something close to it.
I turned, and for an instant, I thought I was looking at my own reflection. She had my face, my eyes, those same greenish-hazel eyes that were so much like my mother’s. But her gaze didn’t meet mine, it was full of life, and it was just like the old me. Her eyes searched the room, wide and anxious.
“There you are, Anne! I was looking everywhere for you.” She smiled. She walked past me, straight to my mother, who quickly wiped her tears and returned to scrubbing the plate, her shoulders tense.
The other me moved close to her, leaning over her shoulder and wrapping her arms around her in a gentle embrace. “Look what I brought for you today,” she murmured, her voice tender as she held up a silver bracelet with Anne engraved on it. She lifted it into the dim light, letting it catch the faint gleam from the overhead bulb.
My mother’s shoulders shook harder as she whispered, “Thank you, my beautiful Zeynie .” She turned her face slightly, and in the faint reflection of the kitchen window, I could see the streaks of tears on her cheeks.
“Are you crying again, Anne?” the other me whispered, her voice dipping, shifting into something darker, haunted. A shiver ran through my whole body. That was not me, That was not my voice.
She suddenly looked in my direction, her eyes collided with mine across the dimly lit kitchen, staring with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“It’s because of you,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a breath, yet each word hit like a blade sinking into my chest. I struggled to breathe, my lungs heavy and tight, as though they were filling with smoke.
Then the voices began. They rose from every corner, every shadowed corner of the room, a cacophony of whispers overlapping, voices from the past, dredged up from the darkest corners of my mind.
“She must have done something, or why would he treat her that way…?”
“She’s a whore……”
“All that innocence, all that sweetness… all an act. I knew it.”
The words sliced through me, cutting deep, each one like a jagged shard piercing my skin. My hands flew to my ears, trying to block them out, but they only grew louder, the words pressing in from every direction.
“No, please… no!” My voice broke, shattering as I screamed into the empty kitchen, my vision blurring with tears. The voices kept coming, louder and louder, the words twisting around me, binding me in place and then it was all dark.
My eyes flew open, my scream still echoing in my ears. Darkness surrounded me, thick and suffocating, as I lay motionless, the silence settling over me like a blanket. I was in my room. My bed. Safe. I was safe.
I took a shaky breath, the cold air filling my lungs and grounding me in the reality of my surroundings. The nightmare lingered, the haunting images seared into my mind, but at least here, I knew where I was.
I pressed my hands against the mattress, feeling the solid comfort of the familiar fabric beneath my fingertips.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint light filtering through the window beside my bed. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, realizing only then how cold my feet were.
They must have slipped out from under the blanket in my sleep. I flexed my toes, feeling the chill as they pressed against the hardwood floor.
With a shiver, I reached over to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp, flooding the room with a warm, soft glow. My bedroom was exactly as I’d left it, everything in its place: the stack of books on the dresser, my laptop on the small table where I placed it before sleeping, the framed photos on the wall—each detail anchoring me back to reality.
Yet, the paranoia clung to me, the ghostly presence from my dream refusing to let go. I scanned the room, my gaze skimming over the shadows in every corner, lingering on the closet door slightly ajar. For a moment, the irrational fear took hold, and I found myself stepping toward it, hand hesitating on the knob. I pulled the door open slowly, heart pounding, half expecting to find someone hiding inside. But it was empty, only rows of clothes hanging quietly, and a few scattered shoes on the floor.
Letting out a breath, I dropped to my knees, checking under the bed. My fingers skimmed over the bare floorboards, finding nothing. Anyone watching would think I’d lost my mind, but I didn’t care. Satisfied, I got back up, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the last remnants of the nightmare.
I reached for the glass of water on my nightstand, my mouth parched. The cool water soothed my dry throat, grounding me further. I set the glass back down and turned to the window beside my bed. It overlooked the small, dimly lit parking lot, which usually stood empty at this hour. I moved closer, peering out into the darkness, my eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the streetlamp casting long, thin shadows over the cars below. I just want to clear my mind from, from my past maybe.
But then, I saw him. A shadowed figure standing still beside one of the cars, his form barely visible against the night. He was facing my window, watching. A chill ran down my spine as I stared, trying to make out his features, but his face was shrouded in darkness.
Heart pounding, I leaned closer, hoping the light would shift enough to reveal his face. Just then, something sharp pressed into my foot, and I winced, pulling back. Looking down, I spotted one of my earrings on the floor—the one I’d thought I’d lost weeks ago.
I reached down to pick it up, still glancing over my shoulder toward the window. But when I looked up again, he was gone. The parking lot was empty, the shadows stretching long and silent across the cold ground.
