Freya

The sound of my phone...it's ringing. Distant at first but unrelenting, sound growing louder and louder as I'm roused from my sleep. I groan, pulling the covers up to my nose, hesitant to leave the warmth of my snuggly bed. The ringing stops, but soon begins again.

Ugh. I wipe my eyes, yawning, sticking only my hand out from the comforter to answer. I fumble around blindly for a bit trying to find it, and I'm so unusually drowsy. It feels like I've been drugged; maybe I took sleep meds last night, but I can't remember. I slip my phone under the comforter just as the call ends, but within seconds another call comes in—but all I manage to do is blink sheepishly at the bright light of my phone as it illuminates my little cave. With a loud yawn, I rub the sleep from my eyes, vision soon sharpening, and that's when the time hits me like a brick.

2:45pm

I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. "Shit" I curse, tumbling out of bed in a horrified daze as I fumble to unlock my phone. I hit the number that's been calling me, heart racing.
I'm screaming internally as I pace the worn carpet in my bedroom, listening to the dial tone as I wait for her to pick up. I put it on speaker, dying inside as I scroll past twelve missed calls starting at 7:30am.

Oh my god. What's wrong with me, did I not set my usual alarm?

"Freya girl, I worry sick about you!" The sound of my boss, Mara's heavily accented voice comes through the receiver, but her tone is thick with concern, not anger. I've been working for her two years now.

"Miss Mara I'm so sorry! I-I don't know what happened, I swear I set my alarm...I swear!"
I sputter apologetically, stomach in knots, words coming out clumsy and slurred...what's wrong with me?

"Freya, child! You worry me sick! I almost call police to check you...you never late, never miss work." Hearing her concern makes me want to cry, because sweet Miss Mara seems to care more about me than my own mother does. I try to catch my breath, finding myself super dizzy and unsteady, so I plop down on my bed, sucking in air as I try to wrack my brain for an explanation.

"I don't know Mara, I just, I don't know what came over me...I feel strange, like, drugged. I don't know. All I remember is trying to go to sleep last night, and my neighbor kept me up per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary, but everything is kind of fuzzy...my voice trails off.
I stretch my neck a bit, finding it's super tight around my right shoulder and wince.

Everything hurts and aches—is this what arthritis feels like? Cause if so, it fucking sucks.
Mara exhales on the other end of the line, "hmm, I think maybe you need doctor, don't come work today. You worry me—never sleeping, always, always working," clicking her tongue in concern.

I drop my face into my free hand, wincing again as the movement alone just pisses my neck off. "Mara you know I can't miss work, I just can't..." I groan, feeling some tears start to well. Money is the bane of my existence, always has been ever since I left home at 18, and I've never known what it's like to not have to worry.
I live paycheck to paycheck, and it's as depressing as it sounds.

"You go doctor, that is final. I pay you 8 hours work-time. " Mara orders, finality in her voice. My heart drops, feeling wholly guilty but grateful that she'd do such a thing for me. Mara isn't made of money either, she's running a small cleaning business in order to support five children, and she's only been in-country for about four years. Times are tough, and the economy sucks literal ass right now. None of us have time to be out sick, missing work.

"Mara you can't do that..." I protest feebly, but she cuts me off.

"My money, my choice. Don't argue with me girl, please tell me what the doctor say, no go. Talk later." She hangs up the phone before I can get another word in, and a melancholy smile spreads across my face. Miss Mara reminds me of my Ima, and she was more of a mother to me than the woman who birthed me ever was. My mom failed me, but thankfully I had a grandmother, my Ima, to step in. If she were alive still, she'd be hounding me to get seen just like Miss Mara.

I lay down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to change my mindset. I should be grateful Mara cares so much. If I worked for anyone else I think they'd have fired me, and at the least wouldn't have cared one bit if I were sick. Mara doesn't have to worry or care about me, but she does. Finding that in an employer is rare, at least in my experience. I throw my arm over my face, the room spinning when I close my eyes. It feels like I'm sick or hungover, but I don't even have alcohol in the house, so what gives?

It's an awful, strange feeling that I can't quite place.

Willing myself to sit up, I shuffle clumsily into my bathroom and down some Motrin and Tylenol. I catch my balance a bit on the sink, leaning into it as I black out a little. My heart feels sluggish, pounding in my chest, as if the blood isn't quite getting to my head as fast it should. I stand there for a few minutes until the feeling subsides, and start brushing my teeth. I inspect my appearance while brushing, almost choking when I see the nasty bruise on my temple, some dried blood where my skin is broken. I don't miss how pale I look, dark circles under my eyes. I look like absolute shit, what happened to me?

The last time I felt this miserable was when I had Mono during senior year, but this feels ten times worse, which is saying something because Mono flattened me for two months. I'm freezing cold, even with my sweatshirt on and thermals which I guess I fell asleep in. Mara's right, I have to be sick. Maybe I passed out and hit my head.

I spit and rinse my mouth, then splash my face with some water to try and wake up more. It hurts to bend my neck too much, and every joint in my body is throbbing. I braid my hair lazily, opting for a single braid because it hurts to raise my right arm for too long. It's clear I don't have the energy to navigate public transport today, so I decide to order an Uber to the walk-in clinic nearby instead. I'll eat the cost I guess, something I rarely do unless necessary, but Mara is right—something's wrong.

I shuffle into the kitchen, firing up the Keurig, and guzzling a glass of orange juice. I feel so thirsty it's not even funny. Orange juice goes down really good, so I pound another glass as I watch my coffee brew. The sugar in the juice seems to help perk me up after a few minutes, and I feel less fuzzy. I check my phone, seeing the Uber is about ten minutes away. Quickly I throw some creamer into my coffee, my travel mug ready to go. Throwing my small cross-body over my chest, I grab my keys, coffee, and stuff some protein bars into my sweatshirt pocket before heading towards the door. I snag my coat as I slip into my all-weather boots, seeing how cold it looks outside.

A harsh shiver grips me as the cold Washington air bites into my skin. It's a crisp autumn morning, and the rain seems to have subsided overnight, skies are blue and clear, making it extra chilly. Usually these are my favorite kinds of days, but not right now. My Uber will be pulling into the complex parking lot any time, so I spin around to lock my door, clumsy fingers trying to put the key in. After what feels like an eternity, I manage to lock the door, shaky hands pocket my key as I start walking to the parking lot, shielding my eyes from the bright sky. My head is pounding, so I choose to stare at the sidewalk, glancing up only momentarily to look for my ride. I'm rounding the corner to where the mailbox stands when I feel myself bump into a sturdy frame. It makes me stumble backwards, and I have to take a moment to steady myself. "I'm so sorry," I mumble, side stepping the person, head down in embarrassment. I hear them shift on the pavement behind me, and a deep, smooth voice calls out to me.

"You don't look so good, neighbor."

I turn around, unable to help my curiosity.
Which neighbor? The ones to the left of me are rarely home, I think I've only talked to Steve the once. My cheeks flush, as my eyes settle on the owner of that velvety voice.

Where has this dude been hiding? He's so hot, what the hell? I clear my throat in embarrassment, brushing some loose hair behind my ear. "Shoot, I'm so sorry...didn't see you."

He shrugs, flashing an easy smile, "All good, not sure we've met before, though. What apartment you in?"

I feel my cheeks flush, knowing how terrible I look right now. This man is beautiful. Tall, lean and muscular, with broad shoulders. He definitely doesn't skip leg day. His blonde hair is coiffed perfectly, yet my guess is he barely has to do anything to look hot—he's just wearing a black hoodie, snug black joggers, and a pair of black trainers. The outfits nothing special, yet still he's objectively handsome.

His skin is pale, like so pale, and it's in very stark contrast against his black clothing. His eyes are shielded by a pair of sunglasses, but I bet they're really pretty. I stare at him, enamored but unable to shake the feeling that there's something oddly familiar about him. I can't quite place why though, and my head is pounding.

"I'm Freya. Apartment 102," I fumble, forcing a confident smile, then glance at the parking lot for my Uber.

"Brad, 101." He looks me over quite openly.

"Wait, you're 101?" My heart rate jumps up suddenly. This is the asshole keeping me up?
No way. He seems too...polite.

Brad cocks his head, and steps closer, "yeah that's right." Smile at the corner of his mouth, deep voice nothing but laid back. Something about him sets off alarm bells though, and a sudden burning sensation crawling across my neck causes me to groan. I reach up, massaging the spot that hurts most, feeling a weird indent on my neck that I hadn't noticed while I was brushing my teeth earlier.

"Strange mark ya got there," he gestures, and there's a knowing look on his face that makes my skin crawl.

"S-sure, probably a bug bite." I stammer, a rapid feeling of unrest and anxiety growing with his presence. Brad furrows his brow, shaded eyes boring into me. "should probably go home and lie down, that bruise on your head doesn't look great either."

"Huh? Oh, that! Yeah, no...I'm going to the doctor," I explain, gazing at the parking lot again wondering what's taking my Uber so long. The app said it'd be 10 minutes, and we're coming up on ten any minute now. Brad shifts, tapping some envelopes against is other hand, and I do not miss the smirk flits onto his mouth.

What the fuck?

I've no patience for whatever this is, and it's getting harder and harder to think the longer I stand here. "You got something to say?" I snip, fidgeting with my bag, worried he might actually be a serial killer or something.

Brad grins, and takes his sunglasses off, revealing a beautiful pair of hazel eyes. "Nah.."
With a single large step he's towering over me, and I can feel my stomach flip.
This guy is bad news, my body knows it.

"I really think you should go back to your apartment and lay down, Freya." His eyes lock with mine, and it feels like there's a weight pressing on my mind.
I stammer, struggling to respond as the Uber pulls into the parking lot. I should be racing towards that Uber, but my body doesn't move. It's like I'm glued in place. My ride hovers there, waiting for me to get in, but I don't. Soon my phone begins to buzz after a few minutes; the Uber guy calling me to see where I am, yet I don't pick up.

"Hey, either of you order an Uber?" The driver calls out to us. I want to shout "yes, me!" But nothing comes out, all I can do is stare at Brad.
Brad shrugs, looking around before gazing at the driver, "nope, not us."

"Uh okay, sorry man." My driver rolls his window up, and I can feel my phone buzz as he cancels the ride, pulling away moments later.
I'm white-knuckling my coffee cup, staring at Brad in silence, standing on wobbly legs. What the fuck is happening to me? It's like I've no control over my actions.

Brad lets out a pleased exhale, flashing me an apologetic grin. "Sorry girl, today's just not your day I guess."

"M-my what?" I mutter, wholly confused, unable to process anything going on.

"Don't worry about it, Freya. Now go lie down," Brad's words delivered this time like an order, not a suggestion.

I frown. This is wrong, this is so wrong. I feel my brain fighting to compute, desperate to push back, but it's like something is blocking me.
"I-I don't want to...I'm supposed to see a doctor..." is all I can spit out, voice weak, feeling dizzy. Brad sighs, frowning in disapproval. "Strange, I usually only ever have to ask the once."

I stammer, no words leaving my mouth and just stare in confusion. Brad's expression turns cold, eyes never leaving mine. "Be a good girl Freya, and go to your apartment."

That voice...that deep voice. I know it. How and why do I know it? My brain feels foggy, it's so hard to think. I just stare at Brad, and he stares at me. His expression goes from disapproving to wholly impatient, eyes leaving mine to dart around the area before dropping a cold, dark gaze on me. His presence starts to become sickeningly sweet, I can't explain it, but it's like I'm becoming intoxicated by him.

Something deep in my gut echos, "get away from him, and don't look back. See a doctor," and I cling desperately to the feeling—desperate to get help for what's happening to my body.
Brad hisses in frustration, gaze piercing me, and I watch wordlessly as those beautiful hazel eyes flush to inky black voids, empty and cruel.

He's a monster.

"You will go to your apartment Freya, and fall sleep. When you wake, you'll remember nothing of this."

I stutter, but am forced to comply this time; legs propelling me towards my apartment. My body is moving but my brain has gone to foggy mush. Deep down something tells me this has happened before, I just know it. As I approach my apartment and begin to unlock the door, a still small voice reaffirms me:

It's all happened before, and it will happen again.