A Bond Woven by DNA

"There are at least three possible explanations for how I ended up pregnant in an idyllic fortress in medieval England.

1. I am dreaming.

2. My consciousness traveled through space and time into another woman's body.

3. I am her alter ego."

Her

The heat wave is nearing its peak after two full weeks of sweat and sleepless nights. The blanket lies as a crumpled heap at my feet. My eyes are wide awake, staring through the darkness.

Without this suffocating heat, my thoughts would probably do just fine to keep me awake, as they always do. I'm sick of it.

A glass or two of wine usually does the trick. I prefer a White Russian; however, it negates the sleeping part. You can't have it all, can you?

People are always surprised when I tell them that I suffer from insomnia. They assume I'm quirky and messy by default. I instantly forget people's names when I first meet them, forget meetings and dates, and fail to congratulate someone on their actual birthday. Only finding the motivation to turn the clock after a few months. When it's already time to turn it back again. Which time is the actual one? Which time suits my lifestyle better? This fucking idea was definitely not the creation of a night owl's mind.

Yet, when it comes to work—when it comes to my passion—I seem to have a remarkable memory. I give every one of my experiments a number, and from that, I always know exactly what I did, no matter how complex it may be. For instance, 'CE52' stands for Co-expression of CDK6 with FBXW7 in HEK293T cells. The ligase's phosphorylation was not affected. I like to joke that I am simply unable to direct my brain to what it considers memorable. I can only remember what I remember, if that makes sense.

What keeps me awake these days is my perfect boyfriend. He's loving and successful. Even my closest friends show signs of jealousy, asking how I was able to hook someone of that caliber—in a roundabout way, of course. I can't wrap my head around it either. Maybe it was sheer coincidence that our eyes met in a crowd. Maybe my gaze was not the first aspect of my being that his eyes landed on. Perhaps he has a weakness for large udders. I don't know the answer.

However, we haven't seen each other in a month, and I'm starting to wonder if he's trying to ghost me, breaking up with me without a clean cut.

To keep my mind busy, I work myself to the point of exhaustion. When you do your PhD, you don't get much free time anyway, even if you want to. So that's perfect.

But at night—when I toss and turn—my mind tries to make sense of the situation. It analyzes every conversation we've ever had and dissects every mistake I may have made, even when I don't want it to.

———

A familiar sensation that is somehow reassuring lingers at my throat. It's like a drug created by my own mind, providing a sense of relief when I manage to produce it once again.

Cortisol.

The answer to my sleepless nights is so simple.

(11ß)-11,17,21-trihydroxypregn-4-ene-3,20-dione.

There we have it. At least now it feels complex.

Self-inflicted high cortisol levels at night keep my pineal gland from producing melatonin. Usually, scrolling mindlessly through social media does the trick. Tonight, for some reason, I decided to try falling asleep without my phone. Without my armor. Left alone with my thoughts.

As expected, the tight grip on my throat is relentless. It keeps tightening to the point of concern.

An immense weight settles over my body. Wrapping me in a blanket woven by my past mistakes. Each one pulling me toward the earth's core.

Nausea settles next.

Unable to bear it any longer, I reach for my phone, which was deliberately placed an arm's length away in anticipation of my failure to produce melatonin.

For some reason, I'm unable to lift my arm, even though there wasn't an issue just moments ago. I look around, and it's darker than usual. My eyes should have been accustomed to the darkness by now. I should be able to see the silhouettes of my room. But all I can make out is the complete absence of any stimulus.

A rapid heartbeat hammers against my chest. Failing to move any part of my body, a tiny whimper manages to escape my lips. My throat tightens further until I'm unable to breathe—a single tear wells up, leaving a cold trace down to my ear.

Silent as a corpse.

Suddenly, all the frantic efforts confined to my racing thoughts culminate in my whole body tensing and jerking me upward from the bed.

The pressure on my throat loosens slightly, and I manage to take a tiny, jagged breath after what feels like an eternity. Only then do I notice the weight on my throat.

An actual weight.

Instead of the familiar darkness of my bedroom, an amber glow surrounds me while a shadow looms up front.

Terror immediately replaces the relief at finally being able to breathe again.

Swinging my arms toward the darkness, I grab a cold, sweaty arm. Shoving sideways with all my might, I manage to roll onto my feet, while the grip on my throat vanishes completely.

A huge naked man is kneeling on the bed, still in the position of strangling someone—of strangling me. I am standing one step away from him, unable to move. Time seems to have come to a halt.

Judging from his size, getting free by a single shove seems impossible.

He must have let me go.

Drawing haggard, aching breaths, I scan the room.

The amber light is emitted by a lamp with an open fire, illuminating the silhouettes of two naked women lying on the bed, insufficiently covered with a blanket. They are not moving.

Slowly, the terrifying man rises and turns toward me.

The flickering fire dances on his imposing features just as unhurriedly as his movements.

It feels eerie—wrong.

All my hair stands up at once. Adrenaline surges through me, enough to free me from my paralysis.

Grabbing the lamp standing within arm's reach, I throw it onto the bed. Oil spills over him, and the sheets immediately burst into flames.

My body moves entirely on its own, while I'm merely a spectator.

As if the world were covered in absolute silence just a second ago, it comes crashing down on me all at once with deafening screams.

And with the sound, time seems to have caught up, too.

The terrifying man is no longer moving eerily slowly, but lunges toward me at light speed. His sudden movement causes me to stumble backward, and I fall hard onto the floor. He frantically moves his arms, and his attacks miss me completely. Instead, he stumbles over my body.

I cower on the ground as heat and weight crash against my back. Suddenly, he falls off me again, screaming in agony.

With heavy movements, I manage to crawl away from the burning bed and the flames of a man.

Men storm into the room, shouting. Immediately tending to the burning giant, none of the three men is paying attention to me.

Flames and smoke spread through the room, carrying the unbearable stench of burning flesh.

I crawl toward the entrance that the men came through. One of them notices my movement, rises, and runs toward me. Sluggishly forcing myself to my feet, I sprint for the exit and shove aside some heavy fabric to finally burst outside.

Freezing air slams into my face and lungs, making me stumble for a moment. Heaving breaths as though I had run for miles, searching for cover.

The area is poorly lit. All I can make out are shapes resembling tents, with nobody else in sight or earshot.

Sensing a presence behind me, I run as fast as I possibly can toward the darkness, away from the faint light.

Controlling my body feels easier now. And I keep on sprinting without faltering.

Eventually, the man seems to have stopped chasing me. At least I can no longer hear him behind me.

As I keep running, my thoughts begin catching up with me.

Looking down at myself, I realize I'm wearing nothing but a thin dress.

After what feels like an eternity, exhaustion forces me into a slow jog. My feet ache from the cold, and my lungs burn.

Then, just as I begin to believe I might somehow survive the cold long enough to find civilization or even a shed, it starts snowing.

Ironic that I yearned for the end of summer so desperately.

At first, only a few snowflakes drift down, melting against my burning skin. Then the snowfall thickens, soaking me in icy wetness, making me unable to run any longer.

Keep on walking.

Forcing myself to take just one more step, to keep going no matter what.

Because resting would mean death.

Tears fall from my burning cheeks as the realization creeps in that I might have escaped the giant, but there is no way I would survive this night.

Then I hear it.

The snort of a horse.

Freezing immediately, I don't dare make a sound as I scan the darkness for movement.

There it is again.

A horse snorting — faint, but unmistakable.

A rush of adrenaline surges through me, sending tremors through my frozen body. Somehow, I manage to run again, fleeing in the opposite direction of where the sound came from.

Maybe thirty minutes later, my strength begins fading once again; nonetheless, I cling to the hope that I managed to escape.

The sunrise slowly announces itself, painting the horizon pink. I stumble toward the brightening light, unable to see properly.

As the silhouettes of the trees sharpen into solid trunks, my body barely carries me anymore.

Tripping over a root, I crash face-first into the snow.

I cannot roll over.

I cannot move my body.

Unable to feel anything, except for my burning lungs aching for the next breath.

But this time, there is no shift in scenery.

No hell disguised as salvation.

As I drift away into nothingness.