[ENG] Pitch Black — Echoes of Bleakmore

Kora pressed her thumb against the small, red icon. The connection severed. She slid the smartphone into her pocket like a foreign object — a necessary evil, more mercenary than ally.

She wasn’t wearing underwear, but that was no novelty.

It was just another detail in the familiar anatomy of her own undoing. A fleeting glance in the mirror confirmed the casing was intact.

No hospital case.

But she needed a pharmacy. Immediately.

In the ruthlessly polished surface, the reflection of a ruined soul stared back — someone whose life had barely begun, yet already felt like a landslide. Tangled, sweat-streaked curls partially hid bloodshot, pale blue eyes that sat too deep in their sockets. Shadows nested in her gaze that no light in this world could ever hope to reach. Her heart-shaped face was a mask of indifference, marred by bruises on her chin that bloomed like dark vines down her neck toward her breasts.

Nothing new.

Her grey shirt — whole only yesterday — was a tattered rag now. Likely the handiwork of the bastard out there. Her jeans were intact but fouled. The dubious substance on the denim had already dried, crumbling into white, wretched flakes at the edges when touched. Normally, they at least waited until the clothes were no longer an obstacle.

Barefoot, she felt the cold biting into her soles, but it barely registered. Instead, she searched her own eyes for an explanation as to why this kept happening to her. She wasn’t insane. Was she? Perhaps they had all been right. Too young to be this shattered.

Twenty-one years old. And not a single memory of last night.

It didn’t matter anymore. She had to get out. Whoever-it-was probably lay in the next room, snoring off a post-coital stupor. It had been the same for three years. The new moon came, and with it, the blackout. Not just for one night. Oh, no. Always three. Three cursed, godless nights where she never knew where she would land or with whom.

Trembling, her fingers found the handle. To avoid even a whisper of sound that might wake her stranger of a companion, she eased the bathroom door open in agonizing slow motion. Holding her breath, she crept into the adjoining room. Her jacket lay by her socks at the foot of the bed. Right next to them — her boots. She bent down slowly, her knees giving a faint, dry crack. The movement was automated, practiced — like a nightmare dreamed one too many times. Without hesitation, she stepped into the boots and snatched her socks and jacket. In the left pocket — as always — a fifty-euro note. Cash. Bloody at one corner.

Had she been the one to take it?

Or was this... payment?

Nausea rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down like bitter medicine. No time. No place for regret.

As she had suspected, a hulking, muscled brute lay facedown in the cramped double bed of the cheap hourly motel. He snored softly. The greasy light of the bedside lamp illuminated the back of his head. It reeked of sex and something animalistic. That was him — the guy. A scent Kora couldn’t quite place. Not unpleasant, just too intense.

He wouldn’t come looking for her. Why would he? She had stopped saying goodbye after the second time. In her experience, it was rarely desired anyway. Social contact reduced to the barest, forced minimum. Disgust curdled in her throat. She swallowed hard, shivering.

The window stood ajar, letting in a warm breeze that failed to warm Kora’s skin. She wasn’t sure if it ever would again.

Not since Bleakmore.

She shook off the unwelcome memory and gritted her teeth.

One last look was necessary. Something about him felt hauntingly familiar. Just a wish? Kora threw on her jacket, leaving the zipper open. The jeans tugged at her knees, the dried filth flaking off with every step. On her way to the door, she cast a final glance at the rumpled bed. A dark stain on the sheet. Not much — but fresh.

She placed her hand on the knob.

And stopped.

Something was wrong. Not outside. Not in the room. Inside her.

A hot prickling spread across the nape of her neck, like the delicate sting of an insect burrowing into her skin. Her hand remained on the handle, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn it.

It wasn’t fear. It was... a premonition.

She turned halfway, glancing over her shoulder. The man lay unchanged, breathing heavily, his back rising and falling with the rhythmic, sluggish peace of the dead.

And then she saw it. A small glint on the nightstand next to the bed.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, louder and wilder. The blood roared through her veins like a torrential river, drowning out everything else.

Go.

Now. Get out.

But her body refused. Again, her gaze fell on the soft blinking, calling to her mind like a siren. It drew her in. Guided by some higher power, she approached the bed again, taking cautious, deliberate steps. She slid sideways between the crime scene of the previous night and the voyeuristic window.

An inconspicuous piece of jewelry in the pocket of the stranger’s crumpled jeans had snared her attention. Leaning over the lamp, she dimmed the light in the room with her shadow.

Kora hardly dared to breathe.

Everything in her screamed to vanish, but it wasn’t her choice as her fingers fished for the small pendant. A fine, white-gold chain emerged. And hanging from the precious metal was a simple oval. No engravings. No filigree. Smooth. Lurking.

As if the treasure had been waiting only for her, she stuffed the warm amulet into her pocket.

Shouldn’t it feel cold?

In that second, she realized her heart was beating steadily again. Not out of sync — but as if it had found resonance with the world. Something shifted. Clicked into place. Internally. Like a shard returning to its original spot, even if the glue was missing.

Wide awake but devoid of nerves, she looked once more at the man wrapped in the sheets. One of his legs was tangled in the fabric. The cloth gripped his hip tight. The now-tame light played over his contours, stroking his bare torso. His rugged face was turned toward her, though the dim light kept its secrets. A sharp jawline led up to an ear half-covered by brown hair. Cut short, but long enough to bury one’s fingers in.

A flash of a memory. Silky soft. Her fingers clawing into his scalp. Again, that flash of recognition. Again, something inside her recoiled. It didn’t matter.

Get out.

She blamed the feeling of connection on the fact that they had slept together. Internally, she slapped herself for the recklessness of staring at him. For wasting time.

Nothing was different. Everything was as repulsive as always, even if this guy looked better than most. A bit too flawless. Perhaps beauty was his only merit, but Kora wouldn’t stay to find out.

Determined but careful, she stepped over the man’s clothes. His wallet lay on the floor under his jacket, the leather gleaming as if begging her to look inside. Kora resisted the sentimental impulse and left the room. Better not to know whose bed she had shared. No name. Just another nightmare. Not reality. At least, that’s what she could tell herself tomorrow. Once the traces were washed away and his image faded.

As she heard the faint click of the lock, she allowed herself to breathe. A wretched sigh trembled past her lips. She leaned against the wall for a moment, inhaling the lukewarm night air.

Two hours.

Where was she supposed to go in the meantime? Perhaps there was a 24-hour diner nearby. Someplace to wait until the night and the horror receded. Empty faces. To disappear into the crowd.

The sound of her boots was swallowed by the traffic noise of the nearby highway. She didn’t want attention — not now, maybe never again. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the red glow of a sign. A pharmacy. Thank God.

She immediately steered her steps toward it.

The bell above the door chimed, and a man with a dark afro appeared behind the counter. He offered a polite smile, but it froze the instant his eyes raked over her, assessing her condition with brutal accuracy.

“Hey,” he began. He clearly didn’t know how — or if — to ask.

Kora gave a dismissive grunt, lowered her head, and marched purposefully toward the aisle with the disinfectants. On her way to the register, she grabbed a neutral deodorant, avoiding eye contact with the concerned, painfully awkward man.

“I need the morning-after pill,” she muttered. The fifty-euro note was in her pocket, but she wouldn’t pull it out until everything was within reach. Her gaze flicked down to her tattered shirt. She quickly knotted the ends together. Maybe that way it looked less pathetic.

Without a word, he placed the medication before her, adding a pack of painkillers and some vitamin powder. When Kora presented the stained bill, he said nothing, but swallowed hard. He picked up the money with two fingers and handed Kora back a little too much change.

Kora left the extra coins on the counter, taking only what she was owed. She didn’t need his pity. Not even the bell above the door dared to make a sound as she left.

Outside, a plastic bag swirled in the glow of a streetlamp.

Two damn hours.