Wrong Body

We know nothing.

We have no idea where we are, where we were before this, or where we will go once our journey in this world ends.

And that’s okay.

People much smarter than I have failed to find the answers, and following the principle that I would find out when the time came, I didn’t bother myself with it.

To be honest, I didn’t even think about it much.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, magic, other dimensions, or similar nonsense, but as a man who deals with the human psyche, I strove to keep an open mind and at least listen to those patients who droned on about such things.

And then, in just two days and a couple of sessions with a mysterious young woman, my entire world turned upside down.

To this day, I have no idea where she came from and how...

Lord, if I had only known…

If I had only known what she would do to me…

I wouldn’t have even gotten out of bed that day, let alone left the house. I would have called my assistant, Snežana, told her I’d got a stomachache, faked a heart attack over the phone if needed…

Hell, I’d have made up anything just to avoid going to work. I wouldn’t have even considered it.

She would have canceled all my patients, rescheduled them to another day, rearranged things like she always does, and I would never have met her.

I would have continued living my quiet and, I dare say, happy, one-dimensional life...

Though, as I say that now, she probably would have shown up some other day but at least it would have briefly delayed that atomic bomb on my central nervous system and the mental collapse that forced me to re-examine everything I had believed in until then.

Now, I can’t even look at my wife, my dog... I’m afraid to fall asleep…

I don’t eat.

I write down my dreams, and in a word—I don’t live.

I merely exist and, I suppose, wait for some sign from above.

But let me go back to the very beginning.

My name is Strahinja Perišić. I am thirty-four years old, and by profession, I am a psychiatrist. I’ve been in private practice for about five years now and I like it. This job is less challenging and much easier than what I used to do at the mental institution..

The world has definitely modernized.

Going to a psychiatrist has recently become more of a trend than a source of shame or a dire necessity.

Business is good. There are more patients than I can take on, but I often found myself in a situation where people mistook me for an expensive chat buddy.

And I hated that, but it paid the bills. It paid for the privilege of living in a house like this, my car, luxury travels, and so much more. It left me plenty of time for myself, my hobbies, and my wife, who truly appreciated my career change.

And that morning was totally ordinary, nothing special about it.

A Friday in April, early spring—the kind of weather made for a getaway into nature.

The day started normally. After a light workout, I had breakfast with my wife, Nataša. We drank coffee on the terrace, discussed plans for the upcoming weekend, and then I slowly headed to my office, located near our house.

Snežana, my secretary, as I liked to call her, greeted me as always with a warm, wide smile, which I returned. But as I set off for my office, she stopped me.

“Doctor, we have a new patient today.” She shrugged helplessly when I turned to look at her. “She called several times last week, but I only managed to squeeze her in today. Mrs. Zokić canceled because of the weekend... She was persistent, she had a recommendation, and she wouldn’t give up.” She paused and looked at the book in front of her. “I know we’re full, but I hope this is alright?”

I just nodded silently and continued on to mentally prepare for my first patient.

I smiled, mostly to myself. Whoever that unknown woman was, she definitely needed a psychiatrist more than Mrs. Zokić, the retired dentist.

Mrs. Zokić had an excess of both money and free time, but no one to discuss current events with or thoroughly rake through the memories of her youth. She was definitely one of those who mistook me for a high-priced talk-partner. And I was actually happy about the change.

The older crowd needed conversation.

Young people mostly pestered me with romantic problems and various dramas I could hardly help them with.

Who called whom last, what this or that meant, and why on earth won’t he agree to a video call when they’ve been texting for six months?

All nonsense, and something I didn’t even want to get into.

Sometimes I felt like a punching bag and literally craved someone who actually needed me. And then she came along…

When she entered my office near the end of working hours, my new patient—the last one for the day—seemed anything but someone who had any problems. Especially not those of a mental nature.

A beautiful young woman in her early twenties. The kind of presence that leaves you speechless and makes you painfully aware of your own age.

And I need to say – I wasn’t one of those guys. Not at all. I loved my wife more than anything in the world, but I simply couldn’t help but notice how beautiful that girl was.

Her black hair fell perfectly straight, shimmering in the sunlight that slipped through the blinds.

And her eyes—piercing, deep, and dark—were almost eerie.

From the way she moved and the posture of her shoulders, I could tell she didn’t lack confidence, and then she sized me up in a way that made me freeze.

“I am Nikolina. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor,” she said quietly, giving my hand a firm squeeze. Somewhat confused, I introduced myself and gestured toward the chair opposite the one I had just stood up from.

She sat down and crossed her legs, clearly much more composed than I was. She wore dark grey, tight jeans and a black leather jacket that fit her perfectly. She looked neat and well-groomed, but she didn’t have a speck of makeup, and traces of exhaustion were clearly visible on her face.

As always, Snežana came in, brought water for the new patient, and then placed a clean ashtray on the small table in front of her, next to that unfortunate box of tissues.

I noticed Nikolina smile at that, but she said nothing. Snežana quickly withdrew, and I picked up my notepad, taking the measure of the young woman.

“Nikolina, what is your last name?” I began professionally, and as if she knew exactly how it worked, she dictated her basic information after asking me not to be formal with her.

Nikolina Vojvodić, twenty-five years old, microbiology student. Such a young, educated, and beautiful woman shouldn’t have any problems.

By all standards, she looked like someone who had their life under control.

But I knew better.

Many times I had witnessed that it’s not always that simple, so I asked her to tell me the reason for her visit.