Chapter 3 Bad karma

As soon as I exited the cab and settled the fare with the driver, I dashed towards my apartment in the seedy part of town. The almost dilapidated building loomed ahead, mocking, and reminding me of how much of a loser I am. I couldn't afford anything better; the rent for a decent place would cost me my entire life savings. And that was the least of my problems - a place to rest my head. Because there were some things much more important than a roof over my head.

Escaping this grim neighborhood was one of the reasons I took up dancing, and even picked up extra shifts at the restaurant where I worked. Dancing and the meager pay from Matthew's club weren't enough to cover my bills. Living here often filled me with fear, but I had no other choice.   I would have preferred the cab to drop me directly at my doorstep. But the path to my apartment was a maze of dark, narrow alleys. Trash littered the ground, and the faint smell of decay lingered in the air. Broken streetlights cast eerie shadows, making the journey even more daunting. Just a few blocks away from my place was a rowdy bar, known for attracting a rough crowd. The sounds of drunken brawls and loud laughter were a constant scrim, adding to the sense of concern.   The building itself was no better. Paint peeled off the walls, and the once-bright exterior had dulled to a sickly gray. The stairwell smelled of mold, and the flickering lights did little to illuminate the graffiti-covered walls. The locks on the doors seemed flimsy, offering little protection. It was the kind of place where a young woman shouldn't live alone, yet here I was. The landlord had countlessly refused to work on the house. But, as an occupant, it was equally my responsibility to ensure the habitability of the space. It was my duty to myself to create a safe living environment. However, with recent events in my life, my concern for my well-being has begun to wane.   When I finally reached my apartment, I tossed my things down haphazardly and collapsed onto my bed. The tears I had been holding back all night began to fall freely. I wasn't crying because of Matthew or Maria. I was crying because Maria's cruel words had reminded me of my dad and the memory was almost too painful to bear.   Maria's harsh words echoed in my mind: "Or is it because you've lost your dad?" The brutal reminder brought back pain I didn't know I could feel. Pain that I've long buried. I could still hear my dad's voice, and see his comforting smile. The vivid memory of our last conversation played in my mind like an old film reel.   I was seventeen at the time, and my father had gone out to participate in a dance-off. He called me while still driving, but I scolded him for doing so, reminding him of the dangers of making calls while behind the wheel. He chuckled and assured me that he was aware, but he just wanted to convey one important message. So, earlier that day, I had confided in him about my insecurities, told him that I was feeling inadequate compared to others, and about my struggles trying to understand school work. I try to recall his kind eyes and comforting tone "Nayan, you're going to grow up to be someone amazing. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."   That was the last thing he ever said to me. And then out of nowhere, I hear the crash, a horrific blur of screeching tires and glass shattering. I screamed and screamed until Mom came downstairs to find me crying on the floor. I was a mess. She asked me what had happened, and I explained everything to her. I told her dad and I were just talking on the phone, and he had an accident. She blamed me for the cause of the death of her husband. I never told the police I was the last person he spoke to, that I was the one who distracted him from arriving safely. I also never told Naomi either, and neither did Mom. We both just decided never to speak about it ever again. But now and then, she reminds me of what I've done. One moment we were talking, and the next, he was gone. Maybe this was bad karma following me, stopping me from finding happiness.   The tears flowed harder as I relived the accident. I can still remember the sound of the ambulance, the cold sterility of the hospital, and the moment I was told he hadn't made it. It felt like a part of me had died that day, too. Eventually, the tears began to flow, and I forced myself to get up. My head throbbed with a dull ache, the kind that normally follows a long bout of crying. I stumbled into the kitchen and opened the freezer, grabbing a handful of ice cubes. Wrapping them in a dish towel, I pressed the makeshift ice pack to my forehead, hoping to numb the pain.   I walked back to the living room, the ice providing a slight relief from the headache. My apartment was dimly lit, casting long shadows that seemed to dance in time with my weary steps. The light at the far end flickered incessantly, but I chose to leave it be; I'd already attempted to fix it six times, only for it to malfunction again. Sinking onto the worn-out couch, I closed my eyes briefly, trying to find some semblance of peace.   But then, my phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the silence like a knife. I groaned and glanced at the screen. It was my mother. I had completely forgotten to call her back earlier.   "Dang it," I muttered under my breath. I knew she would be worried. My mother was always worried.   I took a deep breath and answered the call, trying to steady my voice. "Hey, Mom."   "Nayan," my mother's voice crackled through the phone, heavy with disappointment.   "I was about to call," I added quickly, hoping to deflect her mounting frustration.   "Lies,"   "Mom," I began, but she cut me off before I could say more.   "What if your poor, dear mother was in trouble, Nayan? Thirty-eight missed calls."   "Twenty-six", I corrected her.   "It seems like you always have a habit of putting your family in trouble. What if I was stuck in a fire or an accident? Would you just tell my spirit how sorry you are