FRANCESCA
My heart was pounding loudly in my chest as I stood in the middle of nowhere. I had been walking for a long time, trying to find my way out, but I kept returning to this same junction — every time.
Tall trees stood as mountains around me, such that I could not see ahead of me. But I knew I was somewhere in a thick forest and I wondered how I had gotten there.
The last thing I could remember was returning my novel to the shelf and going to sleep on my bed in my room. How then had I moved from being in my room to being in a forest? What was going on?
The night was silent except for the hooting of an owl from a distance and the occasional croaking of toads. The crickets were chirping annoyingly too but aside from these creatures, the night was pin-drop silent. The silence was frightening.
The sky had a few stars scattered around it with an ivory-shaped moon which shone its light lazily, casting faint shadows on the ground.
Rather than aid my sight, this faint moonlight only made the trees around me look darker, like tall ghosts coming after me. The sight sent shivers down my spine and I wrapped my arms around my body, tears blurring my sight as I shuddered. I was still wearing my night dress, a light fabric which could not protect me from the cold of the night.
What was going on? Where was I? I kept thinking.
Not knowing what else to do, I tried one more time to see if I could find my way out but just like the three other times I had tried, I returned to the same spot. It was like I was going around a circle: there did not seem to be a way of escape for me.
My bare feet were dirty, bruised and sore from walking too much in the woods.
"What's going on?" I cried out, a tear dropping from my eyes and rolling down my cheek.
"What's going on?" I screamed this time and my voice echoed in the woods.
But I stopped screaming when I heard a noise behind me. Fear so great gripped me and I turned sharply, my hazel eyes wide with fear as I stared at the direction the noise was coming from.
A figure was walking right out of the bush, dressed in a black cloak which covered most of his face.
Scared, my lips parted but no sound came out of my mouth. It felt like I had suddenly lost my voice — and my senses too because my feet remained rooted to the ground when all I wanted to do was to run.
But run where? I found myself wondering. All the time I had been running, I had been unable to find my way out, it was like I was locked in a maze and every attempt of mine was futile.
Tears rolled out of my eyes as I shook in fear, wondering if my end had finally come. I was finally going to die without saying a proper goodbye to my loved ones.
The creature in a black cloak was walking slowly to where I was standing and I closed my eyes, too frozen with fear to move an inch.
But my eyes flew open when I heard a soft voice: sweet and mellifluous.
Standing before me was an old woman whose crooked body looked so feeble. She had pulled the cloak off her head and I sagged with relief. My legs became jittery and I dropped to the ground, panting hard. I was so relieved that it was only an old feeble gray-haired woman.
For a moment, I had thought I was in danger but the old woman looked so weak that I stifled a laugh, finding my former fear to be hilarious. But I was brought out of my amusement when she spoke.
"Mila," The old woman called out, staring kindly at me with a bright smile on her face. "Mila Kunis. I found you. Finally."
She was dressed in a white dress underneath the black cloak she had on and I wondered who she was and why she was referring to me as Mila Kunis.
Mila Kunis was a character in the novel I had been reading that night before going to bed. Why would this old woman call me by a character's name?
"Are you lost too?" I found myself asking her as I slowly rose to my feet.
But the old woman did not reply, rather she resumed her walk and only stopped when she was a foot away from me.
"Come home, Mila." She said, her voice coming out as a whisper so that I could barely hear what she was saying. "You have been gone for too long. It's time to come home, Mila."
I frowned in confusion, wondering why she was calling me Mila. Did the old woman think I was Mila? Mila was a fictitious character that did not exist. What was wrong with this old lady?
Though I wanted to ask these questions, I decided against it. I would rather play along. Who knows, it might just be a coincidence that the woman knew someone who went by the same name as a character in the novel I had been reading the previous night.
"Is Mila your daughter, ma'am?" I asked, trying so hard to relax even when everything was freaking me out.
"Yes!" The old woman smiled. "And you are Mila."
Immediately she said that I concluded that she had gone nuts. That was the only explanation I could give for her thinking I was her daughter. My mom was dead. She died a year ago from cancer. In fact, I was to go to the cemetery the next day for her anniversary.
How then would this old lady who looked nothing like my mother think I was her daughter? She must have dementia.
"I'm not Mila." I began calmly. "My name is Francesca. Francesca Johnson. I was in my bedroom some moments ago. I have no idea how I got here. But I need to return to my room right now. Can you help?"
"Oh, blind child." The old woman shook her head once again and when she looked at me, her gray eyes were moist with unshed tears. Pity was written all over her face.
That made my frown deepen. One thing I hated was pity. I did not want anyone to feel sorry for me.
"Oh, Blind child." The old woman repeated, taking a step backwards and slowly fading away into space.
I stretched my hand forward to catch her but she disappeared before I could touch her.
Just when she disappeared, I woke up, panting loudly and sweating profusely. My heart was slamming hard at my ribcage and fear clung to my skin as I looked around.
But when I discovered that I was back in my room, I sighed in relief and fell back to my bed.
"It was a dream," I mumbled with my eyes shut.
But I soon got out of bed and walked to my little shelf where I kept all my books. I picked up the novel which I had been reading before I slept and I examined it, staring at the pages intently.
Though It was a great relief that it had been a dream, I was still troubled. I have been having strange dreams since my mother died and all the dreams had one message: Come home, Mila.
But Mila was just a fictitious character.
As I held the novel in my hand, I wondered if there was more to my dreams or if I was having them only because I was too engrossed in the story of the novel.
Though I wanted to believe that my daily reading of this book had caused my dreams, I could not help but think there was something more to the dreams than I could understand — especially with the way I had gotten the novel.
It had not been gotten from a bookstore or a library but I had found it lying on my verandah a year ago.
I had no idea where it had come from but as an ardent reader, I was curious to read it. The book had no title nor author but my interest had been piqued from the first page and now I cannot stop reading.
Though I had completed my reading of the book, I kept re-reading — the story was too enchanting; each time I read the book, it was as if I was reading for the first time. I was addicted to the book. I did not want to read any other thing.
I scanned the pages of the book again, hoping to find an author — or anything that would give a clue — but as usual, I found none.
Confused, I stayed up all night, pondering on my dream, and being too scared to drift back to sleep.
