"How long has it been again?"
A young man lay on the cold stone floor, his gaze fixed on the sliver of night sky visible through a tiny, barred window.
His cell—a cramped 7×7 space, barely larger than a storage closet.
Light brown eyes, almost golden under the dim glow. Dark brown hair. Warm beige skin, streaked with dried blood down the left side of his face. His bangs hung over his hollow stare—a gaze devoid of life, empty as if he had already accepted the void.
"373... no, 376 days."
376 days.
A chuckle escaped his lips. "Strange... How am I even sane?" He stared at his trembling hands. "Am I even sane?"
A smirk curled on his face.
"Twenty-one, huh?" He laughed—a deep, worn-out laugh. "One more step into my twenties."
A year. A full year.
His voice cracked, jagged and uneven.
Then came the laughter—low, strained, like a wire pulled too tight.
"Ha… ha… ha…"
It started slow, creeping from his throat, before rising—louder, harsher, like something splintering apart.
"Ha… ha… ha… HA! HAHAHAHA!"
The sound echoed, warped, almost unrecognizable. Was it his own? Or something else, something foreign clawing its way out of him?
"I don't remember…" he gasped between ragged breaths, his lips stretching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "…anything ever being sane anymore!"
CLANG!
A sharp noise rang out as something struck the iron bars.
He flinched.
A guttural voice spoke in a language he couldn't understand—but the meaning was clear.
Shut the hell up!
Memories. Memories. Memories…
A silhouette—shrouded in a tattered hood, faceless, nameless—stood before him.
WHIP!
A whip lashed across his back. Fire. Agony. His body convulsed, but no scream escaped his lips. He reached behind him, fingertips brushing against the phantom pain, yet there was nothing there.
A year. A whole damn year.
And yet, it still burned like it had happened mere moments ago.
He let out a slow, hollow sigh.
"Am I human or not?"
A question he had asked himself a thousand times. A question with no answer.
"Alive? Dead? Is it some kind of afterlife?"
He couldn't remember. Not the last time he slept. Not the last time he ate. He was supposed to be human, yet the things that defined humanity had long abandoned him.
And yet—
The pain remained.
That pain. It refused to fade. It was the only thing that reminded him he still existed.
As he stood up, something was wrong.
His steps—off balance, uneven. His right leg dragged slightly, as if it had forgotten how to move. Crippled.
He shot a disappointed glance at the damn thing, clicking his tongue.
Then, thoughts began to spiral.
Sleep… What is sleep?
Some say it's just death being shy.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Death.
Would it come for him the same way it did for everyone else? Or—what if it didn't?
What if he stayed like this… even after death?
No.
Wait. Am I already dead?
His chest tightened. His fingers curled into fists.
Where is this place? Why can't I remember?
His mind was a void. No past. No future. Just… existence.
But—two days.
Two normal days.
Somewhere, buried deep inside his mind, they remained.
Faint. Fragile.
The only proof that there had been a before.
Memories. Memories.
Normal ones.
A boy lay wrapped in the warmth of his blanket, half-asleep, drifting between dreams and reality.
Something was on his chest.
Soft. Small. Weird.
Instinctively, he shot up.
The room was dark.
Then—
"Mew."
His shoulders relaxed. You. Again.
Reaching for his phone, the screen's harsh light blinded him for a moment. 4:12 AM.
Too early.
Still, he sighed, stretching as he sank back into the mattress, savoring the last bit of warmth.
For a fleeting moment, a strange, distant peace.
Then—
"Alright… time to run."
He flicked on the light.
A simple room. Nothing extravagant, nothing cramped. Just his.
A single bed. An old almirah with a mirror. A study table stacked with books. A lone chair.
And on top of his blanket—
A tiny kitten, staring at him like it owned the place.
"Surely, I'm gonna die from rabies."
Mumbling to himself, he slipped into his tracksuit, laced up his shoes, and stepped out.
The cold morning air greeted him.
And just like that—
He ran.
He ran.
2 kilometers.
His breaths came in sharp gasps, sweat dripping down his forehead, only to be stolen away by the cold winter air slicing against his skin.
"Why? Why am I still doing this?"
He exhaled, white mist escaping his lips, his pace slowing for just a moment.
He looked around.
Darkness.
Not a single soul in sight. Only the dim glow of streetlights stretching endlessly ahead.
Blowing hot air into his numb hands, he thought,
"I've been following this self-improvement crap since I was 17... and next...next year— I won't even be a teenager anymore."
"And yet... I'm stuck."
His mind painted the image—a rat, running on a wheel, endlessly chasing something.
But still, he ran.
Because according to him it was right.
Tightening his core, clenching his fists, he pushed forward—
Faster.
His feet barely touched the ground, his body flying.
Darkness. Silence. Then—his own ragged breath.
He ran, his adrenaline surging, his legs moving on pure instinct. Faster. Faster. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. It was as if his very existence depended on this run.
light.
Blinding, piercing through the night like a blade. A low, mechanical roar followed, distant yet deafening.
A car.
It blurred past, moving at an impossible speed, leaving only its red taillights burning into his vision. His breath hitched, his focus faltered.
And in that split second, his heel lifted.
Shit!
He knew—he knew what was coming.
The next moment, his foot met the rough charcoal ground—at the wrong angle. His full body weight crashed down on it.
Twist. Snap.
"AAAGGHHH!!"
A sound tore from his throat, raw and guttural, filled with nothing but agony.
His body crumpled like a broken marionette, slamming into the merciless asphalt. The ground bit into his skin, cold and unforgiving. A searing pain exploded from his ankle, surging through his veins like fire.
He lay there, shaking, gasping.
Silence.
No footsteps. No concerned voices.
No one.
Just the cold of the night. Just him.
His fingers twitched against the pavement, his breath uneven. His body refused to move.
His stomach churned violently. A sickening wave of nausea rose, threatening to force everything out.
Why? Why did he feel like this? It was just an ankle, so why did it feel like his entire body was rejecting him?
He squeezed his eyes shut. His mind swam, his head a lead weight pressing down.
Still, he tried to rise.
Only to collapse.
Tried again.
Stumbled.
A ragged breath, a desperate groan. His throat ached from screaming. But no one had heard. No one would hear.
Still, he moved.
Because there was no other choice.
Somehow, he managed to cover the last stretch.
He reached his door.
Opened it.
And the moment he stepped inside—
Collapse.
Face-up on the floor, gasping.
"Shit… why always…? Damn it!"
His breath was ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at the ceiling.
And then—
A small weight.
Resting on his chest.
Two golden eyes peered down at him, a small feline face tilting in curiosity.
"Numb… I have to go to college."
He whispered, speaking more to himself than to the kitten.
"Right…? I can't skip. These are the weeks of assignments and presentations. I won't be evaluated."
With gritted resolve, he forced himself up—still struggling—his body trembling from the effort.
Then, he looked at the mirror.
And his eyes widened.
"Shit."
Another curse escaped his lips.
Because now—he saw it.
The right side of his face—scraped raw against the tough charcoal road.
The burning pain had been drowned out by his twisted ankle—but now, he could see the blood.
It streaked down his cheek, a deep red contrast against his skin.
His lower lip had a fresh cut.
Drip.
A single drop fell.
Drip. Drip.
More followed, staining his collar.
He stared at himself—his pathetic reflection.
His bangs fell messily over one eye, his face marred with blood, and his stance—broken.
And then—his past failures flashed before his eyes.
Every setback.
Every moment of "not enough."
Every "all of this for nothing."
He sat down on the bed.
A bitter laugh almost escaped him.
But all he could do—
Was stare.
Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.
Was it him who was laughing?
Stop! Stop!
But it wouldn't stop.
He was deaf to his own laughter, unable to tell when it even started—or if it was truly his.
Madness?
Am I? Am I losing my mind?
A small warmth pressed against him.
Soft fur. A tiny weight.
Gurro!
The little kitten nestled against his side, its golden eyes looking up at him—unfazed.
He exhaled.
"No one but you, Gurro. You're always there."
His fingers ran through the kitten's fur, trembling.
"No one asked. Nobody ever asked how I was."
His voice wavered.
And then—
A tear.
Just one.
Rolling down his bloodied cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
He just let it fall.
His grip on the kitten tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself.
"Not too long ago… I found you."
His lips curled—not in a smile.
His expression darkened.
"No human would ever care!"
As Time Passed....
Something has to be done.
Something.
Anything.
He was lucky no one was awake yet.
His eyes flicked toward the clock.
7:45 AM.
Damn.
No time.
He grabbed a black cap, pulling it low over his forehead. Then a b disposable mask—hiding his scraped face.
Like someone up to no good.
He sat down, wrapping his swollen ankle with a strap, rolling it tight until it gave some semblance of stability.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself up.
I need to leave. Now.
If someone saw me like this—
I'd be cooked.
Cooked?
His thoughts stalled for a second.
What a strange word.
He took a sip.
Hot.
Another.
The warmth spread down his throat, easing the stiffness in his body. Cappuccino.
For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the sunrise.
Forget the pain. Forget the ankle. Forget the face.
Just another morning.
"AARAV!"
A loud voice shattered his peace.
His senses flared—instinct kicking in.
Shit.
Without thinking, he gulped the rest of the coffee in one go—burning his throat in the process.
A mistake. A bad one.
He coughed but kept moving, stepping out in a hurry.
As he rushed toward the door, eager to leave as fast as possible, he didn't realize—he had forgotten to lock it.
The air, gentle yet persistent, nudged it open just a crack.
Not enough for much.
But enough for the little kitten to stare inside.
Its golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, unblinking, reflecting something unknowable.
It did nothing. Just stared.
Then, slowly, its tiny paw shifted forward—toward the opening.
Aarav usually prayed to God seven times a day—thanking Him for letting him be born anywhere but here.
This quiet, hilly part of India.
So… relaxed.
The fresh mountain air, the open sky, the absence of honking—a paradise.
And yet, today…
"Damn it! FU*K these mountains slopes"
He stumbled, nearly slipping on a loose stone, cursing these godforsaken slopes.
His walk? Less human.
More like a one-legged flamingo.
Then—realization.
Shit! No!
How could I?!
Gym bag.
He forgot his gym bag!
It felt as if he had left a part of his soul somewhere. His body trembled—not from the pain in his ankle, but from the realization.
How? Today was leg and shoulder day.
Not once in two years had he ever forgotten. No matter what happened, no matter how exhausted he felt, he had never let his mind slip. And yet, today… he had succumbed.
Descending the slopes, he made his way back home.
A voice broke through his thoughts.
"What's with the mask? And why are you walking like a lame chicken?"
He ignored it, moving straight to his room. Grabbing his bag, something felt… off. A sense of absence clawed at him. He scanned the room.
Gurro.
He looked around. The little kitten was nowhere to be found.
"Ahh… doesn't matter," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm not responsible. I gave it food, shelter… pet it sometimes. It's free to go wherever it wants. It'll be back. Where else would it even go?"
He pushed the thought aside and stepped outside, bracing himself for the uphill climb.
"Aarav!"
His mother's voice called him back.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Go bring some grass for the cows." A loud moo followed, as if backing her up.
Arav sighed. "Tell that good-for-nothing fat—" He caught himself. "I mean, tell your daughter to do it. I'm leaving for college!"
His mother scoffed. "And how do you plan to open the gates? It's not even 9 yet."
As they argued, a sound cut through the air—a desperate, high-pitched mew.
Then, a bark.
His head snapped toward the direction of the noise. His breath caught in his throat as he saw it—Gurro, running for its life, a stray dog closing in fast.
No. No way.
He tried to move. His ankle failed him. He collapsed onto the ground.
His mother turned to him, scowling at first—but then, something in her expression shifted. She had seen it too.
Arav's eyes darted toward a nearby tree. Climb it! Climb it! His mind screamed.
Gurro's tiny claws dug into the bark. It scrambled, desperately trying to escape.
Just a little more—just a few inches more—
But its paws failed.
Its body, still too small, too weak, slipped.
And the dog caught its prey.
Arav's world slowed.
A stone—his fingers grasped for a stone. He threw it with all his might.
Too late.
The dog's jaws had already clamped down. Gurro's tiny body hung limp, barely attached at the torso. Torn flesh. Exposed intestines.
Arav's mind went blank.
A cold rage surged inside him.
He picked up another stone. His knuckles turned white. His vision blurred, but his aim did not falter.
The rock flew.
A sickening crack.
The dog dropped, lifeless.
Silence.
A storm of emotions raged inside him—anger, grief, helplessness. He could feel his hands shaking.
Too late. It was already too late.
Memories Ohh Memories Clear Memories ...