Echo of the Protector

She woke up, startled. The pressure of the bedsheet still seemed to

press down on her neck. She could also hear the sound of the

gunshot, sharp and deafening, piercing through the cold, dark

atmosphere of the alley on the night of her father’s death. It had

always been like this since that incident, but recently, the nightmares

had become more frequent. However, that was not the only thing

troubling her. Every time she tried to approach her father’s lifeless

body, sprawled on the cold ground in the alley of her nightmare, she

was forcefully pulled back by strong yet gentle hands. The voice of

the man who owned those hands—urgent, insistent—constantly

warned her, “Step back. Don’t go there! You have to run. You must!

Run! It’s dangerous. We need to go!”

That wasn’t the only time she felt the presence of that mysterious

man. She was certain she was going to hang herself the day before

when, suddenly, she felt the warmth of those same strong, firm hands

on her legs. She felt herself being hoisted up just as she was

succumbing to the unconsciousness that threatened to drag her into

the darkness consuming her mind and vision. She was aware that

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder could cause hallucinations and

delusions, but she had never heard of such delusions being anything

positive, especially when the victim was immersed in negative

thoughts. It was even more unlikely that a delusion could save

someone’s life. Had she truly hallucinated a person who, in reality,

had saved her life? In addition, more troubling still, why was he

intruding on her nightmares—nightmares of an incident that had

occurred long ago and had ended differently from what she had been

dreaming about recently?

The doctors didn’t believe her when she told them about the

mysterious man. When she was suddenly attacked by PTSD and

nearly took her own life, she always felt as though those extreme

emotions and impulsive actions weren’t truly hers. They felt forced

upon her, as if something—or someone—was manipulating her mind.

The most unsettling part was that whenever she reached the brink of

death, she would forget everything afterward. It was as if those

moments, those dark and overwhelming episodes, vanished as soon

as she crossed over, only for her to wake up in a hospital bed,

disoriented and trapped in a cycle of nightmares.

They called it Amok Syndrome, a psychological condition where an

individual, often overcome with intense emotions, suddenly loses

control and acts violently or recklessly without memory of their

actions. They prescribed her medication, but she never truly took it.

In the beginning, she had tried, but the pills felt like a futile attempt to

control something that wasn’t within her grasp. After a while, she

pretended to take them—swallowing them in front of the doctors and

nurses—while in reality, she simply hid the pills under her tongue or

spat them out when no one was looking. The Amok Syndrome did

not seem to affect her as severely anymore, but the nightmares, they

lingered. She had learned how to suppress the episodes, or so she

thought.

Of course, she never intended to tell them about the appearance of

the mysterious man. His presence, despite the comfort he seemed to

bring, still unsettled her. What would they say? Would they tell her it

was just another symptom of her fractured mind? They might just

push for more medication, more ‘treatments,’ and perhaps even label

her as truly insane. No, she wasn’t ready to risk that—not unless she

was ready to inhale medicine instead of oxygen for the next few

weeks. And yet, despite her fear, the man’s image lingered in her

thoughts, creeping into her nightmares and her waking hours, like a

puzzle she had no intention of solving... until now.

It only took a few more days for her to get used to the intruder. During

the daytime, she would happily work in her flower shop, and at night,

the man would intrude into her nightmares until she started feeling

comfortable whenever she sensed the presence of those warm

hands.

One particular day, she, Araya Celeste, came to her small apartment

feeling down, her face tired and gloomy. She had just broken up with

her boyfriend because he had indirectly implied that her ‘mental

health’ might not allow her to ‘properly’ maintain a relationship in the

future, and that he was ‘having a lot on his plate already and his

parents might not agree’. She knew she had certain issues, but she

definitely was not crazy, as the doctors seemed to think. She certainly

did not openly reveal her mental health condition just to hear him say

that. She thought she could trust him and that he would support her.

He was a paranormal investigator, and she secretly hoped that he

could help her solve the mystery behind her father’s death. The police

and forensic pathologists said that it was ‘High-Altitude Pulmonary

Edema (HAPE)’ that seemed to fit the situation. However, she felt

sure that the sound of the gunshot that night was not imaginary. But

she had lost hope of investigating further into the matter for the time

being because the source of that hope was no longer present.

That night, she cried silently, shivering uncontrollably too exhausted

to even shut the windows or fully cover herself with the quilt on the

side of the bed. Half asleep, she was slowly surrendering to

unconsciousness when she suddenly felt the warmth of a gentle

touch—two firm, manly hands. One hand was slowly rubbing her right

leg, while the other gently caressed her cheek with the back of it.

She knew at once that it was him, but she was neither surprised nor

startled to suddenly feel his presence in her real life, unlike previous

times. She also did not feel scared or alarmed to find herself being

touched by an unfamiliar man like this. She did not make a sound

even when fingers warmed with passion and desire gently squeezed

her boobs under the skinny she was wearing. Instead, she let her

hands slid behind the man’s back and caresses it slowly while her

cold shivering lips were covered with his and their tongues intertwined

together until she could hardly breathe in. “Will you... do you want to

let me in?” he asked when their lips parted for a short moment to

breath in. She looked at those clear hazel eyes that were glistened by

the moonlight coming from the window dazedly, and whispered

“…yes…yes, I want it. Yes!” when her hands slid inside his shirt. He

chuckled quietly and suddenly sat up on the bed. He gazed

passionately at her and removed his shirt and her skinny rapidly while

her hands pulled down the tight jeans he was wearing.

The atmosphere between them was getting hot in the middle of that

cold night. Her cold body was dyed rouge with lights nibbles from him,

while her soft mourns reflected the pleasure she was feeling, to the

young man whose movements were getting faster and faster.

Next instant, he suddenly asked with a low grunt “Are you ready?”

and she parted her legs under him in reply. She felt herself gradually

being filled in as she gasped in painful pleasure, a feeling that was

hard to explain with words. He was coming farther inside, and that

hard thing was exploring the deepest parts of her body while that

scorching heat burned her insides. She was pressed down under him

while he was thrusting up and down until she felt like she could not

hold onto consciousness anymore. However, he did not stop and her

insides were constantly moved in and out until she was in a daze at

the end of it. She screamed until her voice was hoarse and he was

gasping with quick breathes. At last, when she released, he fell on the

bed beside her and she snuggled into his arms. Before she fell

asleep, she could feel him wrapping the blanket around them and

murmuring, "Do not try to investigate this further. It is for your own

good. It was his fate, and we cannot change what happened

anymore. Just trust me. You are not alone anymore. Not alone..." The

last thought she had before she lost consciousness was, "I am not

alone... at last."

The next morning, she woke up alone in bed, and the only thing that

indicated something had happened was the bloodstain on the white

bedsheet she had been lying on just a moment ago. She gazed at it

for some time, unmoving, and the emotions in her eyes were difficult

to discern. It was unclear whether she felt happiness or confusion.

Her body was sore from everything that had happened the night

before, so she washed herself and returned to the room.

It was her day off, and even if it had not been, she didn’t feel like going

anywhere. She wanted to reflect on the dream she had experienced

during her deep slumber. Before anything else, she had her usual

nightmare of that cold night. But this time, as she felt the presence of

the young man behind her, the scene changed drastically.

What she saw felt like a recollection of past memories from a third

person perspective, as if someone was quietly observing. It was an

omniscient view of two people, her father and the young man,

engaged in tasks—both paperwork and manual labor—with no

sound, like scenes from a drama. The young man seemed to be a

close ally or subordinate of her father, always exuding an aura of

protection around him. Though she couldn’t hear or make out their

conversation, it was clear that he played a significant, protective role

in her father's life.

She remembered feeling confused and torn until the end of the

recollection, when her father looked toward her, smiling gently before

entering the hut and closing the door. The happiness and

astonishment she felt seeing his smile lingered, one she had missed

so much. It didn’t feel like she was in the dream; rather, it was as if the

omniscient viewer was Amie herself, invisible to everyone. She stared

at her father, hoping he would appear again, when she suddenly felt

the young man’s gaze, still beside the hut, as if it were tangible,

touching every part of her. She stared into those clear hazel eyes,

which seemed to reveal a silent plea and a gentle smile— a plea

urging her not to dwell on the past any longer, and a smile that

reassured her he was on her side, not her enemy. They gazed at each

other for some time, though she didn’t feel physically present there,

until the scene shifted one final time.

She found herself sitting in a small courtyard of a traditional house,

holding a nameless letter. In the dream, she instinctively recognized

her father's handwriting—the last letter he had written before his

sudden death. The letter's contents were simple, and she knew

instinctively that she had to take its words seriously.

The letter read:

"Beloved Araya,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. Whatever they say

about my death, accept it and don’t investigate further. Don’t let

the past burden you, as it can’t be changed. Wherever I am,

know that I am happy and reunited with your mother. Trust the

person who saves you—he is a man of faith, and I’ve entrusted

your protection to him. He will care for you. Live well, my

daughter. I will always love you."

As she finished reading, she opened her eyes to the ceiling of

her bedroom, two teardrops falling into her hair.

Now, she sat on the couch in her room, deeply convinced that she

must not investigate any further, though she wasn’t sure where that

conviction had come from. She believed her strange dreams had

something to do with it, but she felt lost and confused, as though

everything was unreal.

She desperately longed to see her young man, who seemed to be

fading into a beautiful delusion in her mind, mixed with the confusion

she was feeling and the dreams she had. A headache began to throb

in her head when the doorbell suddenly rang. She said, “Coming,”

and slowly went to open the door for the unexpected visitor. When

she opened it, the sight of him left her momentarily unsteady and

astonished, but that quickly transformed into a feeling of relief and

happiness.

It was him—the one she had desperately wanted to see. He smiled

and asked, “Am I invited, my lady?” She stared at him, moved aside,

and let him in. As he stepped through the door, she closed it behind

him and hugged him from behind, her hands clasping his waist tightly.

He slowly turned around, allowing her to nestle into his chest, as

though she were a fragile kitten seeking warmth from someone who

would care for her. In that moment, they were both lost in the intimacy,

and Amie felt an undeniable connection. She felt as if she had known

this man for a lifetime, as though he were her lifeline—something that

tethered her to this world. Since her father's death, her world had

been shrouded in darkness, loneliness, and sorrow. But for the first

time since then, she felt a profound sense of peace and happiness.

He kissed her forehead softly and whispered into her ear, "I'm sorry

for being late to stand by your side. From now on, I will always be with

you, never leaving you alone, never causing you pain. I will be yours,

and yours alone." His hand was rubbing against her cheek and she

was tilting her face to that side, letting him caress her for a while until

he moved his lips near her ear and gently rubbed his tongue against

it. He lightly clasped it between his teeth and she trembled slightly

while her hand clasped his jacket tightly. She helped him remove his

jacket, closing her eyes as he gently lifted her, continuing to place soft

kisses on her face. He whispered, “I am your guardian and lover too,”

as he gently placed her on the bed. His words were so soft that she

could barely feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. She said

nothing, simply gazing at him in silence, her eyes silently guiding him.

His eyes became dark with desire and he come down at her

ferociously, making the bed creak up and down with each of his thrust.

She could feel insides turning upside down when the deepest parts

of her body were pressed hardly by him, so hard that she could not

even scream. But she did not resist because she trusted him

completely. The echo of his voice would forever resonate in her heart.