Chapter 1.1: Galanthus Nivalis – Hope

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April 12th

𝕴f I could go back in time while keeping all my memories and knowledge, would I do it?

Why am I sitting?

No. Never. Absolutely not.

My neck is stiff.

Not in a million years.

It’s so cold here.

I made so many mistakes, I hurt people and was hurt in turn. Time closed most of the wounds, burying regrets deeply into my psyche. More often than not, that’s fine. That’s how life is supposed to work. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Oh, God!

I learned from my past because going back to fix mistakes is impossible.

It’s interesting to debate on this, though. Sometimes I pick moments I would change, think about how they influenced my life and who I ended up becoming.

I’m not in my bed.

But could I guess what impact every little thing might have on my life, the moment it happens? Of course not, and questioning everything sounds exhausting. Living through everything again sounds even worse.

Ok, I have to open my eyes.

Yet here I am. Everything I worked for, gone in an instant. Everything I loved, vanished.

Where the hell am I?

I didn’t realise at first. How could I? It’s insane.

Oh, God. What’s that on my head?

It was a helmet. Without thinking, I yanked it off. Hot pain exploded in my skull, melting my brain, burning my eyes. My teeth clenched hard, trapping my screams inside. Waves after waves of a blind shriek, my brain in agony. The helmet dropped from my hands as I crouched on the floor, head vibrating in my shaking hands. My eyes swelled, threatening to pop out. My nostrils burned cold. My fingers were burning sticks, my limbs – logs. Tongue – paper dry. Back – prickled by a million needles. Ears – numb. Skin – painful to touch.

I tried to scream, and no sound came out.

Although I was in terrible pain all around, not being able to scream twisted my stomach into knots. Screaming is a human right, and I demanded the ability to do it properly. I tried again, couldn’t, and got even angrier.

Shaking worse than a windchime in a storm, I got up from where I was seated and tried to retrieve the helmet. It had rolled under a desk, so I had to crouch to get it. I hadn’t crouched in at least twenty years. My knees complained and yielded, slamming my weakened body against the cement floor. As I crawled excruciatingly slow towards the helmet, I swore I wouldn’t crouch again for the next two decades, but I ended up doing it again the same day.

It was still horrible.

After what felt like ages, my fingers finally managed to grasp the smooth, plastic edge of the helmet and pull it towards me. The discoloured, patchy exterior had once been blue, now barely visible around the edges and in small cracks. On the inside, hundreds of small, spindly protrusions, placed with surgical precision reached threateningly inwards. Shiny metal glinted into the little light coming from above. I touched a few with the tip of my finger, expecting an electric shock. Nothing happened.

Looking up, my headache now subdued and my eyes used to the semi-darkness, I scanned the room. Cement walls, so tall they made the space look bare despite dozens of boxes, paint buckets, wires, and strange shapes obscured by darkness. No windows and just one wooden door at the top of the cement stairs.

Shivers ran through my legs, my back, my arms. I ran my hands over my body and found it covered in a dark-coloured jumpsuit, soft to the touch, warm, yet not warm enough for the cold, dry drafts sweeping the floor.

I put the helmet down and got up, pushing myself against the desk. A cluttered, messy desk, the only area breathing life into what would otherwise look like an abandoned basement. On it, I saw two screens covered in rows of numbers, diagrams, and graphs. A keyboard, a mouse. Against my better judgement, I pushed the mouse with my finger. One of the monitors remained unchanged, but the other alerted in red, demanding letters: “Runtime Error: No output”. I turned around, eager to put the message behind me. Hoping not seeing it would stop the torrent of questions flooding my mind.

In front of me was the place where I had risen from: a large wardrobe missing its doors, with a simple, cushioned chair in the middle. Lots of buttons. A couple of screens, three levers, a large computer connected to a box bleeding red wires.

My stomach turned and another jolt of pain flashed through my head. A vague image materialized in my mind, causing my heart to skip a beat.

A crooked smile, half-hidden behind a beard. A pair of large hands on my arms, holding me tight. I looked down, to my golden dress, to my thin, pale legs, to the stuffed puppy next to my ankles.

I have to get out.

A stream of memories overtook my mind. Mostly messy, muddy, contorted, with slivers of clarity every now and again.

We’re friends, aren’t we?

They swirled in my mind, fast and rowdy, electric eels in a pond too small.

I need you to stay here tonight.

Interrupting each other.

I love you.

Contradicting each other.

We can’t go on like this.

Noises and voices so distant they seemed unreal.

Help me.

Panic rose through my throat until my tongue tasted bitter and I forgot my physical pain. A flash of clarity and I knew who had left me there. I wanted to forget, as soon as I remembered, but once the revelation had emerged, it was impossible to bury. My arms found their way around my body, holding me, protecting me.

I breathed deeply, pushing the anxiety out with every exhale. I needed a plan.

First, I would need to get out of the basement. Then, I would need to silently make my way out of the house and find someone I can ask for help with.

I listened for footsteps but heard none. I headed for the stairs that led to the exit, careful not to make a sound. Every step was difficult and I had to cling onto the broken furniture that was there, onto the stationary bike in the middle of the room, onto the mini-fridge next to the stairs. The soft tennis shoes I wore dragged slowly against the cement floor, then up the stairs. Each step was harder than the last, stealing quick heartbeats and ragged breaths out of me. As soon as I got to the top, however, my luck changed - the door opened easily, without a creak, and I managed to slip out.

Clinging to pale green walls as I went, I shuffled along the hallway. Almost all the doors were open and I glanced inside each room, to make sure nobody was in. The first one looked like a decently-stocked pantry. None of the jars contained human body parts so I was off to a pretty good start. Even though my throat was aching, I resisted the urge to grab something to drink. I had to move forward.

Then I saw a closed door, on the other side of the hallway. After that, on my side, came a kitchen. Inside – a shadow. I held my breath and listened.

No sounds came from inside. It was perfectly still. That was a relief. The shadow must’ve been a drape. I stepped forward gingerly, getting right next to the door opening. Nobody inside. I could already see the exit. I took one more step.

A hand grabbed my arm from inside the kitchen.

The world’s most silent woman was staring at me, mouthing something I couldn’t hear, a plate in her hand glistening with water. I screamed, trying to scare her into letting me go but my voice hadn’t returned. She seemed startled, however, and loosened her grip for a split second. I tried to yank my arm free, but I wasn’t fast or strong enough. Her frame was bigger than mine, although she was slightly shorter, and I believe even if I weren’t as weak I would have struggled to break free.

She stepped towards me, her expression softer. I pulled my arm again and she lost her balance for a split second, dropping the plate.

The plate shattered and I could barely hear the noise it made. Just a distant, lonely crash.

Then everything made sense.

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She led me to a living room, and I was too stunned to protest. I collapsed on the first armchair I saw, my muted pain melting in the comfortable leather. She sat on a couch perpendicular to the armchair, wiping her hands on her apron, again and again. I stared at her, unpleasant tingles running through my body. She smiled. I dug my fingers deeper into the armrests.

After a few moments, she gestured towards the kitchen and mimed drinking something. She waited, probably expecting some sort of answer from me, but none came. I was staring at her large, smiling face, her frizzy dark hair with grey roots peeking out, her checkered shirt, dissecting every feature, every fiber of her being. A vague familiarity I couldn’t place. Eventually, she got up and grabbed a notepad from the kitchen, then came back to the living room.

“Can you hear anything I say?” She wrote on the page, underneath a short shopping list: eggs, tomatoes, bread.

I shook my head, lips pursed as if to keep myself from speaking against my will.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

My arm reached for the notepad before I realised what I was doing: “That’s a reasonable request. I think I will stop worrying now.” I scribbled in fury, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of the pen against my fingers, and threw the notepad on the coffee table. I leaned back, waiting for her to pick it up.

She read from where she was seated, head tilted to see better. She looked up at me, pity written on her face.

I grabbed the notepad again and continued. “My hearing is completely gone. Yesterday I could hear perfectly well.”

She finished reading and this time she tried to take the notebook, but I pulled it back.

“I distinctly remember that. I heard my alarm go off. I heard my omelette sizzle in my pan. I heard my orange juice splash against the glass. I listened to music. I heard my keyboard tap as I wrote. I heard my neighbours having a fight. I even heard leaves rustling when I went out for a walk.”

My pen stumbled on the paper, held too tight between my trembling fingers. Out of anger? Desperation? Tiredness? I couldn’t tell.

“How the hell do you expect me to be calm? Would you be calm in my situation? And how long was I in that room? Where exactly am I? And who are you?”

My writing had turned into a little more than a scribble. It wasn’t good, to begin with, but as more words poured out, the little energy I had left had nearly dried out. Yet I was too proud to admit defeat. Everything had been taken from me – the least I could do was keep my head high. However, it was getting harder and harder to do and I regretted not accepting a drink.

I looked at her, beads of sweat on my forehead, expecting an answer for a few seconds before I realised I had to give her the paper.

“It’s gonna take a while to explain”, she wrote. “I’ll get you some food and something to drink. You can eat while I write, okay?”

I hesitated. She got up and went to the kitchen anyway. My hands ran up to my face, trailing my throat. Was it that obvious that I wanted some water or was it just a coincidence that she knew exactly what I needed?

I got up, slowly, painfully, and stepped towards the hallway. The exit was ahead, once more, and this time the woman was busy.

Run.

I took one more shaky step towards freedom, and I stopped. The door stretched further and further away, the armchair I had left calling for me.

I want to know if my suspicion is correct. I want to know what happened to me. I wiped my hands on my jumpsuit and turned around. I’m not in danger.

Back into the living room, I looked around. Comfortable, eerily familiar. I closed my eyes.

A young girl with olive skin and dark hair, laughing hysterically. Unseen arms perforating stacks of drawings and putting them into a binder. A standing ovation, roses landing on a stage. A printed letter, signed with light blue ink.

Shivering, I snapped my eyes open once more. I had to keep busy. I had to keep the figments at bay. At least for now. Lowering myself into the armchair, I looked around the room.

The duck egg blue walls were barely visible behind countless small watercolours of flowers and butterflies, encased in identical black frames, or simple, chestnut furniture with a thin layer of dust on top. The couch and the armchairs were elegant, with wooden handles, albeit fairly old and definitely used.

The couch had a blanket draped around one of the handles, blue and green yarn stretched after years of use. I remembered this blanket. It felt like it had been mine at some point. I grabbed it and threw it around my shoulders, enveloping myself in its smell: ink and vaseline and a tinge of cinnamon.

A middle-aged woman, dressed in a pink suit, rubbing my hand. Fingers on piano keys. A city skyline dipped in sunset pink. A crowd of strangers, dressed in black. My arms clutching the blanket.

I hurled it away from me, shivering. My muscles were so atrophied, I barely managed to send it half a meter away, where it flopped pathetically on the floor.

A few seconds passed before I came to my senses. I turned towards the door, and saw the woman next to me, holding a tray of food. She had probably been there for a while, watching me wrestle with the blanket.

She placed the tray on the coffee table between the couch and the armchairs. She had brought two hardboiled eggs, a couple of pieces of cheese, buttered bread with jam, and a bowl of strawberries, all neatly arranged on a plate. Next to it was an unopened yoghurt cup and a tall glass of mineral water. Precisely what I would normally eat in the mornings. My stomach knotted. I pushed the tray away.

“I know this is what you like to eat”, she wrote. “Eat and I’ll explain everything.”

I didn’t touch the food. The similarity with my normal routine was too alarming.

“Not eating won’t get you anywhere.”

I gave in and grabbed an egg, then pointed to the notepad.

She started writing while I chewed slowly, once more measuring her from head to toe.

Probably not older than fifty-five, with short, butch arms and meaty fingers that scribbled away, barely stopping to think about what to say next. I noticed she had put on glasses and was pushing them up every ten seconds or so, although they never slipped. Her clothes were comfortable and simple – a red checkered button-down and a pair of black trousers.

I had nearly finished the strawberries, a sweet aftertaste still on my lips, when she looked up smiling and gave me the notebook. A couple of pages’ worth of explanations.

“My name is Dalia”, the note said, “and I am your aunt.”

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