⚠️Content Warning
This story deals with extremely sensitive themes, including violence and sexual assault. Please read only if you feel emotionally prepared. This is an emotional story that will surely touch your soul .
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— "Indra… Indra! Save me! Please! Indra!"
— "Indra… Indra! Save me… Indra!"
The desperate scream tore through the night—raw, broken, helpless—bursting from the chest of a beautiful twenty-year-old girl.
Two powerfully built men, barely twenty-three or twenty-four, were holding her tightly. Her arms and legs thrashed wildly in desperation, but their iron grip slowly drained her strength. Her voice cracked under the weight of terror and sobbing. Disheveled hair fell over her face, tears streaming down along the wet strands clinging to her cheeks.
A heavy boot pressed brutally down on Indrajit's head, forcing it into the ground.
Kicks rained down on him—from every direction—his stomach, chest, back, face. Nowhere was spared.
"Don't touch her! I'll kill you all!" Indrajit shouted, gasping for breath.
Blood covered his face. His forehead was split open. Yet he did not stop.
He fought with everything he had, trying to rise, trying to reach his girlfriend. His breathing was ragged, his body failing, but whatever little strength remained in his arms and legs, he used it to strike back.
He grabbed a fistful of dirt, trying to throw it—but a boot came crashing down on his hand. Pain exploded through his fingers. Tears flooded his eyes.
They surrounded him.
Rods. Bricks. Boots.
Indrajit roared in agony—each roar silenced instantly by another blow.
A boot pressed hard against his throat. His breath began to choke off. His eyes swelled, turning red.
Still, he screamed with whatever air remained in his lungs—
"If you touch her, I swear I'll kill you!"
The girl screamed through her sobs—
"Indra… Indra… please don't kill him!"
She was dragged brutally.
Suddenly, her fear multiplied—one of the men pulled out a knife.
Under the harsh glare of a phone's flashlight, the blade gleamed cold and sharp.
The knife sliced into her clothes—rip, rip—threads snapping, fabric tearing, strands hanging loose.
---
Indrajit heard everything.
Her screams.
The tearing of fabric.
His eyes burned red with rage.
"I won't spare you… not a single one of you—"
Before he could finish, a brutal kick smashed into his ribs. Pain folded his body in half.
"Kill him!" someone shouted.
The boot pressed down on his throat again—harder this time.
"No… not yet," another voice said calmly.
"Let him hear his girlfriend scream first."
At that command, the foot lifted.
The others resumed—kicking his back again and again. With every blow, his body jerked violently. Blood sprayed from his mouth onto the ground.
A savage kick struck his ribs—like it meant to shatter them.
Then—one final kick straight to his face.
His lip split open. Blood poured out, soaking the earth. Some slid into his mouth, down his throat, turning into choking coughs.
The girl struggled like a madwoman, trying to reach him, but two men held her tightly from behind.
Hands touched her exposed body—disgusting, filthy.
"INDRA!!! INDRA!!!"
Her voice no longer sounded human—
It sounded like the wounded cry of a torn animal.
Indrajit gathered every last fragment of strength left inside him.
Through blood-soaked lips, teeth clenched, he whispered—
"Let… her… go…"
Then—
A heavy metallic blow crashed down on his shoulder from behind.
His body jolted violently. His limbs went numb. Whatever strength remained drained away.
But it didn't end there.
Kicks resumed—on his arms, legs, chest—merciless.
Yes… it hurt.
Indrajit was in unbearable pain.
But his eyes never left her.
His pain was nothing compared to hers.
She cried uncontrollably, looking at him with shattered eyes—perhaps knowing this was the last time she would ever see her Indra.
She screamed his name one last time.
But the sound never reached him.
Everything began to fade.
His vision blurred.
His hearing dulled.
One final blow—
A man stepped forward and kicked his head with full force.
Dust exploded into the air.
Blood poured from Indrajit's head, flowing endlessly onto the ground.
The girl tried to run to him—screaming—
But her hair was yanked back.
Her cries echoed…
And Indrajit heard nothing.
His eyes closed.
---
**************************
Indrajit woke up suddenly.
His heart pounded violently. He struggled to breathe—mouth open, gasping. His chest rose and fell in erratic rhythm.
Sweat drenched his forehead, neck, chest. The bedsheet was twisted, the pillow lay on the floor—as if he had fought someone in his sleep.
That night.
Twelve years ago.
The nightmare never left him.
Her screams—"Indra… save me!"
The flash of the knife.
The sound of tearing clothes.
Her helplessness.
The countless blows.
His desperate attempts to rise.
To protect her.
But he couldn't.
Right before his eyes—within his helplessness—she was destroyed by monsters wearing human faces.
He could only watch.
Listen.
And curse himself for failing her.
Even now, thinking of that night crushed his chest—as if someone reached inside and twisted his heart until it tore apart.
Every sound.
Every smell.
Every pain—carved into his skin.
The wound never healed.
---
Thirty-two-year-old Indrajit lay on the bed, wearing only shorts, his body marked with countless old scars.
On the bedside table—half-empty bottles of sleeping pills.
Since his release from prison, they had become his only companions.
Because when he was awake, memories and emptiness crushed him.
So he forced himself to sleep.
He checked the clock.
Twenty hours.
Not surprising.
Sleeping pills did that now.
He felt nothing toward life anymore.
Sleep was just a way to forget.
Yet even after such deep sleep, exhaustion clung to him.
He got up.
His chest, shoulders, abs looked sculpted—muscles not exaggerated, but carved cleanly, sharply, as if life itself had shaped them with a chisel of suffering.
Five feet eleven inches tall.
Strikingly handsome features—gifted by superior genetics—making him look far younger than his age.
And yet—
His face carried an unspeakable weariness.
As if he had died long ago, and only his body remained alive.
A living corpse.
---
He stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand.
Suddenly—a violent twist in his chest.
A burning wave surged up his throat.
He bent over the basin—
And thick red blood poured from his mouth.
It splashed against the white porcelain—warm, horrifying.
His hands gripped the edge tightly.
Blood dripped between his teeth.
He looked up into the mirror.
Blood streaked down from the corner of his lips.
No fear in his eyes.
Only emptiness.
He hadn't eaten in two days.
This always happened.
His body rejected itself.
Still, he avoided food.
Since the day she died, the world had lost all taste.
Living now meant only one thing—
Forgetting.
He turned on the tap.
Red water swirled down the drain.
And staring at his reflection, he thought—
I died twelve years ago. What stands here now is only an empty shell.
---
Bare-chested, he opened the door.
Outside lay several items—medium-sized cartons, a small trolley bag, a covered bucket, and a milk bottle left by the deliveryman.
He had just moved in.
He started pulling everything inside.
That's when—
The opposite apartment door opened.
A girl stepped out.
Fourteen… maybe fifteen.
White school shirt.
Blue pleated skirt.
Black school shoes.
Two simple ponytails.
A bag full of books on her shoulder.
Her tie was slightly crooked.
Her face carried an almost divine innocence.
Indrajit froze.
Her eyes were wide.
Curious.
Fixed on him.
On his chest.
His shoulders.
His abs.
She stared openly—teenage curiosity mixed with quiet awe.
Embarrassment washed over him.
He hadn't known a girl like this lived next door.
I should dress properly from now on, he thought.
She didn't look away.
Her gaze lingered—especially on his abs.
Then she smiled.
The most beautiful smile in the world.
"Uncle, are you new here?"
The warmth in her voice felt strangely familiar.
Indrajit stared at her silently for a second, exhaustion and unused surprise in his eyes.
Then he nodded gently.
Said nothing.
She studied him more intently—
as if trying to read the stories hidden inside him.
Uncomfortable with her gaze, he looked down, pretending to gather the boxes.
She asked eagerly—
"Where did you live before?
What do you do?
Who lives with you?"
So many questions.
So much curiosity.
He paused.
It had been so long since anyone spoke to him like this.
Before he could reply—
The neighboring door creaked open.
A woman stepped out.
Probably the girl's mother.
Mid-thirties.
Yet stunning.
Tall. Fair. Sharp nose. Full lips. Heavy eyeliner. Deep red lipstick.
A tight short dress clung to her perfectly proportioned body—ending far above the knees.
High red heels.
Deep neckline.
Flawless cleavage.
Indrajit glanced—
Then instantly looked away in embarrassment.
She stared at him with pure contempt.
Hate, sharp and cold, radiated from her eyes.
Without a word, Madhurima grabbed her daughter's hand.
"Let's go."
Her grip was tight—painful.
"How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers?" she snapped.
Then, deliberately looking at Indrajit—
"And that man is a criminal. Never talk to criminals."
The words cut deep.
Indrajit said nothing.
The girl frowned.
"But Mom… the uncles who give you drugs are criminals too.
Why do you talk to them then?"
Madhurima's eyes flared.
"Are you my mother, or am I yours?! Don't argue!"
She squeezed the girl's hand harder.
"Ow… Mom, it hurts…"
But she didn't loosen her grip.
Dragging the girl toward the elevator, Madhurima disappeared.
Indrajit stood frozen at his doorway.
He had known the girl only minutes.
Yet watching her being dragged away left an unfamiliar unease in his chest.
---
To be continued…