KNOW! MISS! THEN FORGET!

For some reason, every time I wake up I'm sweating, my heart beats fast and I feel extremely short of breath. I can't remember what I dreamed about, or how I felt, I just know that every time I wake up I feel like I just got into a bloody fight with someone, or something. There is no flicker of any image I have seen. This has been happening over and over for the past week! I was really worried about my health, so I decided to go for a checkup earlier than usual, and the result was that I was fine. At least physically.

The strangest thing is that I still sleep well. I mean I know I slept deeply because my mother said she didn't see me wandering around the house, I didn't even talk in my sleep. Most importantly, I felt completely awake and had no signs of insomnia. There was nothing strange except the back of my shirt was wet and my heart was racing while my breath was choking.

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Now I would like a few minutes to explain about myself. I'm a second-year student at a technical university in Ho Chi Minh City, and somewhat contrary to my major, I like to write. Usually I only write when I have a good idea. After a little bit of writing, when I'm no longer interested, I stop writing. Just that, as a simple form of entertainment for myself, with no intention of letting anyone know about my stories. Today, as soon as I finished eating and showering, I immediately opened my laptop and started writing. I write quickly, write a lot, it seems like I don't think at all. I lost track of time while writing and was so focused that my mother had to pat my shoulder before I could finish the flow. Mom asked:

- What are you doing sitting in front of the computer all night?

I scratched my head and smiled: "I'm just in the mood so I'm writing. What time is it, Mom?" - My mother pointed at the clock behind me. The hour hand now points to eleven. So I've been sitting here for five hours now. Too much time compared to the time I once spent writing a story....

- You write too much, I've never seen you write this much. Rest, little girl. Mai still goes to school.

I said "yes" out loud and saved the story. Before going to bed, I was startled to realize that I couldn't remember what I wrote for five hours!

***

An entire forest of trees was burning, all of them were engulfed in flames and smoke so thick that from afar, anyone could think it was the surface of a large metal plate. The Government is mobilizing all resources to save the rare remaining forest in this land. The cause has not yet been determined, but people say that right in the middle of the forest, there is a wooden house where only an old woman lives. It must have been because of her carelessness that she and the house burst into flames, taking the whole wing with it. The forest is dying in the fire. After about three days, intelligence forces discovered that part of the forest had been saved from being burned down. Fortunately, separating this part of the forest from that burning piece of land is a large river branch that helped isolate most of the destructive power of the fierce fire. The people immediately joined hands with the authorities to organize guards to prevent the fire from spreading to this side.

On a bright moonlit night, the gentle light covering that small piece of forest did not make the people on guard worried as they looked across a large area, a resource area that was gradually disappearing in a wall of black smoke. It was late at night, a boy sat with his back against the trunk of a cajuput tree, eyes half-closed, hoping to get some relaxation after a twelve-hour shift without rest. As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt a sharp pain in his arm. He looked down and saw an ant stuck to his hand. By reflex, he slapped his hand hard, causing the ant to die instantly. He immediately checked his seat carefully, until he was sure he wasn't sitting on an anthill, then gently closed his eyes to continue resting.

Once again, the son was awakened, not by a bite from a bird, but by a girl's scream. The girl was calling for help. He quickly stood up and went to find her to save her from trouble. He shouted loudly into the dim space filled with moonlight:

- WHAT? WHERE ARE YOU?

Still only desperate screams responded, he was forced to rely on his own senses to find the direction of the sound. After only a few seconds of groping in the fading light, he found his way to the riverbank, where a girl was struggling in the water. It seemed like she had fallen into the fast-flowing river, the whirlpools were rushing like they wanted to suck everything to the deep bottom of the river. The boy rushed forward, completely unaware of what was on his way. In his haste, he tripped over a rock and fell down, falling into a giant mound of fire ants. Passively, the whole colony of ants boiled up and attacked. They rushed at the boy, without any mercy. He screamed, pain engulfing him and the scream drowning in his throat.

The ants are coming out in larger numbers, densely packed. He tried to rush into the river to escape, but the ants held him back with their most aggressive stings. He kept jumping up and falling down. He shouted for help, but it seemed like no one nearby could hear him. This place is so quiet. His hands reached forward, just one more step to the water's edge, but he couldn't do it. The last image he saw was that girl sitting on the water, her pretty mouth emitting a cold laugh...

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***

The next morning I woke up, this time I felt tingling all over my body, but looking closely I didn't see anything that could make me itch so crazy like this. I just sat there, on the bed, scratching. Luckily today is Saturday, I don't have to go to school, otherwise my friends would look at me like I have scabies. My nails are like my father's so they are both thin and sharp. No matter how much I scratch, a thin scratch line appears. It hurts to death, but the itching feeling is still there, it's so annoying.

My mother was reading the newspaper when she suddenly clicked her tongue, shook her head, and let out a sigh. My mother has developed an old person's disease or something. Mom turned around and said to me:

- Read this article, son. Horrible too!

Not wanting my mother to worry, I had to grit my teeth and endure the burning scratches and itchy feeling in order to stand up, sit at the computer, and read a long article that was posted at five o'clock this morning. was three hours ago. After reading that news, I shivered. At that time, it was dark, a young man fell into a poisonous ant hill. In the morning, all that remained was a skeleton with a bit of fabric from the shirt he wore the night before. According to the article, he had just left his shift to guard the forest and had just escaped a firestorm. I don't understand where he went to the riverbank to fall into a natural trap.

To forget the itch that was tormenting me, I decided to write something that would distract me. However, I sat there for a long time and didn't want to write anything. It's so frustrating, right now I really need to do something to forget the discomfort I'm having to endure. I suddenly remembered the story I wrote a few days ago. Anyway, I didn't know what else to do, so I opened it up to check the sentences. Strangely, I still don't remember what I wrote. I also forgot to open it and read it again even though four days had passed since that day.

At first, when I read, I was just surprised at how my writing style, as well as my use of sentences and words, improved so quickly. I read, and found it much better than what I had written, the sentences were neater, the words much more selective. This surprise led to another surprise, until the end that I suddenly realized it. I wrote about the story in the newspaper. Every detail, every description, every moment...all of it, I knew, wrote and forgot. I even know the reason why that guy went to the riverbank. This cannot be a good omen. The itchy feeling that was still tingling in my body was now even more painful. My eyes were constantly reading the computer screen over and over again, my mouth was mumbling things that I still couldn't remember until later, and my hands were scratching all over my body endlessly. Blood oozed all over my arms and legs. My mother came from the kitchen and saw me like that, panicked and ran back, saying something that I could no longer hear clearly. Then, I fainted.

***

The next time I woke up I was in a rather damp cellar. Water somewhere on the ceiling dripped onto my face, "long tong...long tong..." like that until I was completely awake. This scene made me imagine a scene in a movie that I don't remember the name of, the only prediction is that there will be a lot of diamonds, gold and silver... cursed, I will go crazy if I touch them. Now, my survival criterion is to not touch anything.

I looked around me. This place is decorated like the cave of Jesus Christ or some other Christian saint, I'm not sure. There was a giant amethyst table and chairs, about five or six pine trees decorated with pine cones studded with silver, gold, and even diamonds. On the stone table, used to light the cellar, was a clear diamond candlestick with several pieces of vines of unknown origin wrapped around the base. If I don't consider the gloomy and sad atmosphere here, I quite like this basement, especially the candle holder. But anyway, to be safe, I still won't touch anything.

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I gently got up and discovered my arms and legs were locked tightly with metal chains. I pulled hard on the strings, making them make a loud noise. I cursed under my breath: "Damn it, what does this mean?". A voice spoke from the darkness, where candlelight could not reach:

- I woke up. Good.

This male voice is quite warm, deep and very resonant. It sounded like the voice of something long ago. I guess I'm about to meet a saint or something. It makes people curious, especially in this illusory scene.

- Who? Who's that?

That's all I can say right now. I suddenly realized I was no longer bothered by the itching. On the contrary, I feel even healthier than usual. It's just these chains that make me feel bad. That person - if it was a person, just chuckled, then continued speaking like a monologue:

- Those chains will release you when you accept the mission, or call it a curse, that we are about to give you.

Hearing these sentences, I couldn't calm down. He clearly showed that he had no good intentions in this conversation. The "mission" already sounds difficult, but now it's also a "curse", I can't bear it. I struggled harder, pulling and breaking the locks. With the humidity in this place, I'm sure many of them are rusted. Just use a little more force...

- Smash it! Break it! I really want to see how miserable you humans are when you are chained, robbed of freedom, robbed of life...

Regardless of what that guy was talking about, I just focused on finding a way to escape. Just ten minutes ago, I advocated not touching anything, but right now, I was forced to go against what I was determined to do. I tried to reach for anything that could help me escape this shackle. Losing my composure, I didn't realize that the chains were shortening. It wasn't until I was completely exhausted and lying down panting that I realized the painful truth. Now I was officially tied to the place where I was lying, a land bank with quite a few insects and other creatures I didn't want to talk about, crawling back and forth.

- Now listen! I don't have much time. I need you to kill someone...

- It sounds so easy to say!

My voice was full of sarcasm, and I even tried to bring in as many elements of contempt as possible. A brazen saint like him wants to kill me, all he has to do is snap a finger and still no one will know, no one can take him to prison or be executed, so why take the trouble to borrow my hand to do it? that joke. However, for some reason the itching is returning, and each time it gets worse. "A..a..a..a...The crazy guy has a boil in his brain!!!" – I cursed silently. I know he caused this. I cursed him in my mind, in my mind!

- I heard you, like a person with a boil in his heart! Now do you accept the offer?

- Are not. Always no.

The stranger raised his voice in question, I could tell he was raising his eyebrows: "Are you sure?". I decided not to say another word. I'm busy struggling like crazy with every skin cell going crazy. The crazy guy waited for a long time, and when he didn't receive any words from me, his laughter echoed throughout the basement. There was a snap and I immediately felt a pain in my stomach. Besides, my hands and feet were still tied, I had no way to protect myself. This pain feels like a bunch of mysterious creatures are crawling in and burrowing into my stomach. I could clearly feel the pain running back and forth in my stomach, after a while it spread to the large intestine, lower abdominal cavity... finally, it stopped in the lungs after disturbing the entire digestive system. mine and go back up.

My eyes have blurred and can no longer see anything clearly. Sweat poured out like a shower. More confused, I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore. My internal organs were being gnawed away, and my skin was being chiseled by hundreds of carving needles. The itch didn't stop at the level of just making me want to scratch my skin, it reached a level that made me choke and made me want to peel off my skin. Both inside and outside I was being tormented, so much so that I didn't know which pain was worse than the other.

Just like that, at some point, I closed my eyes and fell deeply into a coma.

***

Everything gradually becomes clearer. I'm about to go crazy. My mother told me that after I fainted, I had a fever and kept hugging myself as if I was cold, but those are still some normal symptoms of someone with a fever. I dreamed, this time I remember what I dreamed about, what I felt, what I said and who I met. What I remember most is the horrifying torture, it was very real, nothing more real has ever happened to me. So bad. The only good thing after this illness is that I no longer feel itchy. However, I wonder, is this a good omen, or just the calm before the storm?

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I always kept those scary phenomena to myself. I couldn't tell anyone, not even my mother.

This morning, a Sunday a week after I had a fever, I wrote again like I was delirious, only this time faster and more. Just like last time, after I stopped writing I couldn't remember what I wrote about. I simply saved the story, turned off the computer and went to sleep.

I completely forgot about the story I had just written until two or three days later, I saw a news program on TV reporting on the forest fire nearly two weeks ago. This time, people announced good news: The government and the support of local people were able to extinguish the fierce fire. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard this news. However, the lost forest area accounts for about one-third of the original forest area. It is expected that recovery will take about twenty-five to thirty years, not including the time to prepare human resources and capital to support the project. forest regeneration project.

However, along with this joy, we have to accept other losses and tragic deaths. A newborn baby was kidnapped by a wild fox, and that child was the first child of a native family. Poor young couple. The husband, after returning from a shift helping with firefighting, accidentally led a flock of hungry foxes home, and then they snuck into the house and stole the precious child they had just acquired. In addition, a young girl was locked in a deep cave, the cave entrance was intentionally filled with rocks. When her body was found, it was rotten with her stomach opened up, her liver almost completely eaten away, her stomach torn apart... Hearing this, I felt a chill in my body, then they posted the mirror image. The face of the murdered girl made my heart jump. That girl....she looks exactly like me. Exactly the same!

I turned off the TV immediately. My body suddenly trembled uncontrollably. I quickly ran back to turn on the computer, my mouth stuttered, my hands clutched the tabletop tightly, my mind spinning. I pray that what I think is not true. It cannot be true. It took me a while to open the file containing the story I wrote most recently. It took me about ten more minutes to calm down and muster the courage to read the story I wrote... Alas... I was like reading the news on TV again, only it was written out on the computer. I already knew, again. And I forgot, again. Crazy, I'm crazy. I felt like I knew that girl, and the reason why I had that immediate skin disease.

All details lead to a reason...!

***

Ten years later...

I am no longer the second year student that day. I have a husband and two beautiful children. My life is quite normal. In the morning, I kiss my two preschool children goodbye as I take them to school. At noon, I went to lunch with my husband at a relatively luxurious and clean office restaurant. In the afternoon, my husband and I went to pick up the children and bring them home. My husband took care of their studies, and I struggled in the kitchen to cook rice. Then, on good days, we always have happy family meals.

No one, no one knows that I have another activity at night, when my husband and children are asleep. I write. I've written a lot over the past ten years. After two years since I was a student, I have written a story every week. In the following years, the frequency of stories I completed gradually increased, one week, six days, four days, two days... Until now, every night I release a story. If I publish these stories, I won't have to work anymore, I'll just stay home and enjoy my wealth. But I can not. I really want to, but I can't. It's not because I'm afraid that my story won't be good, I'm confident that it's quite good in terms of language, but it's too real in terms of content. As if it reflected the future of reality. Whenever my story is completed, the content of the story will immediately follow exactly what I wrote. To put it bluntly, my story is the scythe of death, I have written the path that leads my fellow humans straight to death... To put it even more bluntly, I am a murderer. However, my role is just that of a knife, the person holding the knife to take the lives of the deceased is someone else. I took away people's breath through the story, and that person took back people's breath through me. A sophisticated massacre plan caused obvious deaths without leaving any traces.

I hate him, and at the same time pity him a little. Worse, I can't say who it is, my family would be in danger, so please understand. I understand that if I pointed out who he was, my whole family would immediately follow in the footsteps of those victims. I have this curse, whether I like it or not, I will continue my work. I was imprisoned forever in a prison of conscience with the heaviest sentence. My husband and my children are all living under the same roof with a murdered man, but I will still do everything to protect them, even selling my soul. However, I can reveal a little, just a little about the person who used my hand to kill someone. I don't blame him, I understand and I sympathize. I just feel sorry for my fate when I have to bear this responsibility. How many more lives will be taken away by my own hands?

Now, please read an excerpt from my story, maybe you will find the person who cursed my soul....

".....The baby died in the foxes' throats. The little baby, with a very weak heart, passed away along with the forest of his motherland. The father lost hope of living, The mother cried inconsolably. Echoing in the distance, a laughter filled with bitterness mixed with indignation continued forever. The fire screamed, the forest died, and no one was responsible This is beyond the indifferent humanity. They must die, they have died, they are dying and they will die, that will only be the beginning!