A Place Best Left Forgotten

The white noise intensifies as the dark clouds seem to draw closer. Monrisa reached out blindly, her heart pounding frantically, her lungs burning as if begging for air.

"Where the hell am I?" she wonders.

She’s dressed like a gangster, a fake cigar clenched between her teeth.

She’s cornered in an alley by a man who thinks he knows how to make women laugh—or make other men ashamed of themselves.

"You're too ugly for me," Monrisa says, trying to step around him.

The man grabs her arm.

"You shouldn't do that unless you want to get hurt."

"Why don’t you like me?" he asks.

"Even if I knew the answer, I still wouldn’t tell you."

Windows stand wide open, sunlight pouring into the room.

Monrisa takes in the piles of filth, the empty bottles of cheap liquor.

The man from the alley sits in the corner, slumped against the wall, his head tilted lifelessly to the side.

This must be the place I tried so hard to forget, Monrisa thinks.
And then she screams.