It was night, I was at my desk. The little stand light shone its scorching light on an empty paper in front of me. The rest of the room, shrouded in darkness. I tried to write a poem myself, but I couldn’t seem to get it right. It was like I was fishing in a dark pond, searching for a koi. But all I got were slimy, dark fish without a name. It frustrated me to the point I crumbled the empty page and threw it in the bin. For some reason, I felt like walking. To venture into the unknown. So I snuck past my mother’s room and got out of the house.

The streets were lit with lanterns every few yards. In the dark, even the known world felt different. I walked around the block, thinking about poetry. When I was almost back in my street, my thoughts were disturbed by the noise of a car rumbling. I looked back and saw headlights peering through the darkness. I continued to walk. “Between the walls, echos of the past,” I murmured. “Calls to me from the shadows forces me to watch scenes that I wished to forget.”

The car came closer and closer and I could see my shadow stretch in its light. My body was tense, as I listened carefully to the sound of the car. The noise came closer and closer still, until the car rattled next to me, matching my speed. I turned to see the passager window open.

“Do you believe the ego manifests outside? I mean, that your body adapts to your personality.” It was the voice of a woman. I took a deep breath, letting my stomach expand outwards.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But what if it’s the other way around? That you become what you look like?”

She opened the door. “Get in.” I hesitated. Not just the thought of getting in a stranger’s car at night, but the idea of a car itself. I looked in the distance, my house was a sprint away.

“I can bring you home.” She said.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“Not as of yet.” With that, she speeded away. It was a sportscar. You could hear it as the engine roared to life. I saw its brake lights create this reddish glow before the car turned and disappeared. I quickly walked to the door and entered. I had forgotten all about being stealthy and stubbed my toe against the table. I immediately froze. She was still asleep.

The next day I woke up at twelve. My mom already left for work. She worked in a laundry where she ironed. Sometimes, she had to work extra hours, depending on the amount of clothes and napkins and tablecloths. Usually, she came home around five. I felt guilty somehow for her, so I cleaned the house as good as I could. Starting small with dusting off, then vacuum-cleaning. I started cooking rice. In the fridge I found some chicken that I cut into small blocks and fried, after that, I made a curry sauce. When I tasted the sauce it needed more salt. Frankly, it needed more of everything. Cooking was something I regularly did, though I wouldn’t have called myself good at it.

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I ate the dish at the dinner table when I heard the car again. Soon, it passed the kitchen window at a snail’s pace. I could see the contours of the woman looking at the houses. She was looking for me. I dropped my fork and ran for the door. It was indeed the same car. A pitch-black 911 SC. The car turned onto a neighbouring lawn, then turned.

The window opened like last time, only now I could see who was in there. A woman of around thirty with dark, curly hair. Her lips were devil red. She wore white, full-rimmed glasses. “Can I come in?”

She parked the car on our drive. And I kept thinking the car was worth as much as our whole house. The first things I saw were her white shoes and sunkissed legs. She wore a skirt starting at the knees. She had beautiful knees. I never knew knees could be beautiful.

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asked. I looked up. “Only vampires ask such questions.”

I instantly regretted my response, but she laughed. “Don’t you worry, I’m not here to suck your blood.

She got in and I cleaned the table. “So, who are you?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“My name is Yasmine. I live nearby, in the villa close to the park.”

This encounter didn’t feel like a coincidence at all. The more I thought about it, the more I felt Like I was the puppet of some evil puppeteer. Someone who changed the solid things by fake things, and the fake by the solid things.

“If you want I will tell you my story.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why should I know your story?”

She smiled. “You can only be interested in my story once I tell it. Or at least hint at the unknown. So, do you want to know it or not?”

I nodded. “Let me prepare some tea and you can share your story.” I had forgotten I was actually quite hungry. The hunger to sustain me was replaced by a different kind of hunger. The hunger of the unknown.

That day I became addicted to Yasmine.