Chapter 5 Samira
Samira
I woke to nothing.
Not the soft blur of sleep or the low gray of early morning. Nothing. Solid, endless dark. I blinked, waiting for the room to come back into focus, for the ceiling or the window or even the vague shape of my own hands to appear.
Nothing did.
I blinked again. Harder. My eyes burned, but the darkness didn’t move. It didn’t thin. It didn’t crack. It just stayed there, heavy and absolute.
A cold pressure slid through my chest as I lifted my head. The dark lifted with me. I turned toward where the window should have been, toward where morning always leaked in to my room—but there was no glow. No outline. No hint that the world was still out there.
Panic crawled into my throat.
I tried to breathe slowly. It came out wrong—too fast, too shallow. My heart started to race, each beat louder than the last.
This wasn’t night.
This wasn’t a closed room.
This was… nothing.
I blinked until my eyes ached, desperate for even the smallest flicker of light. There was none. Just black. Endless and unforgiving.
Fear hit me then. Not all at once. It crept in, thin and sharp, then exploded through me like ice in my veins.
My hands flew out, searching. I found the sheets, the edge of the mattress, the rough weave of the blanket. My own leg. Solid. Real.
But it didn’t help.
Without sight, the room felt wrong. Bigger. Smaller. Closer. Further. I couldn’t tell. The world had lost its shape, and I was trapped inside it.
I forced myself to sit up, breath coming in broken pulls.
The darkness stayed.
Unmoved.
I rubbed at my eyes. Hard. Once. Twice. I pressed my palms into them until pressure burst into tiny sparks behind my lids—but still no light. No shadow. Just the same endless black.
My hands started to shake.
I tried again. Wiping. Rubbing. Pressing like I could scrub sight back into them. It didn’t work. The darkness wasn’t on my skin.
It was inside me.
My heart slammed in my ears. My breathing went shallow and fast, like my lungs were forgetting how to do their job. Panic wrapped around my chest and pulled tight, turning every breath into a struggle.
Memories flared—sunlight, color, the way morning used to spill across a room. I reached for them and felt them slip through me, already fading into something I couldn’t trust.
My throat closed. I tried to call out.
Nothing came.
Old instincts dragged my voice down into silence, the same way they always had when fear took over.
My hands flew over the bed, the air, my own face, searching for something solid. Something familiar. I found nothing that made this feel real.
The dark stayed.
Heavy. Close. Unforgiving.
The truth hit me like a blow—I couldn’t see. Not a hint of light. Not even my own hands in front of my face.
My breathing broke apart, too fast, too shallow. Heat and cold fought under my skin as panic rose, sharp and unstoppable.
Then a voice cut through it.
Deep. Steady. Certain.
“Good morning.”
The words hit me like a jolt.
I went still. Every muscle locked. I knew that voice. I didn’t know how, or from where, but it slid under my skin like something remembered in a dream.
“You slept well,” he told me.
I turned my head toward the sound even though I couldn’t see him. My heart wasn’t racing with fear anymore—it was pounding with something else. Danger. A strange, aching pull I didn’t understand.
The darkness didn’t lift.
But the stranger’s voice cut through it, steady and warm.
“You need to breathe,” the man told me. “You’re somewhere safe, and no-body’s going to hurt you.”
I believed him.
And for the first time since I’d woken up, my lungs finally pulled in air.
I tried to speak.
My lips moved, shaping the questions crashing through my head—Where am I? What happened? Why can’t I see?—but nothing came out. My voice died before it ever reached the air, cut off the same way it always was when fear took over.
My tongue felt thick. My throat locked tight.
My sight was gone.
Now my voice was, too.
I was trapped inside my own body, stuck breathing while everything else refused to work. All I could do was hope he understood that my silence wasn’t a choice—it was something fear had stolen from me.
His voice kept me from falling apart, but only just. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t answer him. I was in a room I didn’t know, wrapped in a darkness that wouldn’t crack no matter how hard I blinked.
I tried again.
Nothing.
My breath came out shaky. My hands trembled against the sheets. I felt stripped bare, exposed in a way I’d never known—every sense ripped away except the one that did nothing to keep me safe.
Hearing.
Soft footsteps moved near the bed.
“I’m going to help you sit up,” he explained.
I went still, but because I didn’t know what was coming, and that made everything dangerous.
His hand brushed my shoulder. Warm. Solid. He waited. When I didn’t pull away, he slid an arm behind my back and eased me upright. The shift made my head spin, the black tilting even though it never changed.
Something touched my mouth and I flinched.
“It’s water,” he said.
I hesitated, then leaned forward. A straw met my lips. I took it in and swallowed.
Relief burned down my throat.
I drank too fast, choking on the liquid as my body clawed for more.
“Slow down.”
I forced smaller sips. The cup moved away. I licked my lips, grounding myself in the taste of something so simple yet real.
“Good.”
That voice… it tugged at something in me. Familiar. Broken. I didn’t know why.
My throat ached as I tried to speak. Nothing came. I lifted my hand, waving it inches from my eyes.
Still nothing.
“I know this is overwhelming. But you’re safe here.”
My fingers clenched in the sheets. Safety had never lasted for me.
The mattress dipped as he sat nearby—but not close.
“I won’t touch you.” It sounded almost like a promise. “I’m just going to sit right here. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“You lost consciousness last night. You’re in my home. I brought you here because I didn’t know where to take you.”
Cold slid through me. I remembered nothing.
“Easy,” he said.
I pressed my palms into the mattress, gripping the fabric like it could anchor me.
“I’ll answer your questions, but I need you to start breathing again. You can’t hold your breath forever, you know.”
I tried. My chest stuttered.
“Count them,” he commanded. “In. Slow. Out.”
I did. One breath. Then another.
The panic didn’t leave—but it loosened its grip.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded.
He waited a beat.
“In a moment, I’m going to tell you what happened to you.”
Fear surged back—but his voice stayed steady.
I didn’t know if I could trust him.
I only knew that for now, I was helpless and I needed him.