Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Over the last fourteen days, I’d done the whole sightseeing thing through Europe. Eating exotic foods. Saw strange new lands. My camera was full of those experiences, memories that I’d be able to keep forever, even when I went back to my dull life—whenever that may be. As it was, this trip was open-ended, something that probably wasn’t realistic, given the fact that I only had a certain amount of money to my name, but a reality I was going to try to make work.
Because I needed it, not only for my health, but for my sanity as well.
The little cottage I’d managed to rent had been found through a rental company. After contacting the owner, they told me there was the option of staying long term, and that they could discuss it when I got there.
Maybe I should’ve been more afraid of this whole situation, where I may have lost my damned mind. But there was something inside me, this flicker of light, this moment of feeling alive—hope—that told me this might very well be the best thing to happen to me.
This very well could be the exact thing I needed to reboot what was dead inside me.
We only lived once, right?
We only had a certain amount of days, a certain number of hours. A preordained amount of memories before the light in us was extinguished and we moved on to the next thing.
Whatever that was.
And I supposed I was just living that to the extreme, to the fullest, to experience all I could in the short number of years I had in this world.
The road evened out, and I was able to relax against the worn leather seat, my muscles aching from tensing during this trip. The driver was an older man with white hair, an unequally white thick beard, and eyebrows that looked like they were trying to crawl off his face because they were so bushy. His hands were curled around the cracked steering wheel, the skin tanned and worn, wrinkled and showing he’d no doubt done hard labor throughout his life.
He only said but a few words to me, and I had to wonder if it was because he didn’t speak much English or if he just wasn’t sociable. Either way, that was fine with me. I’d never been much for socializing anyway.
I looked out the window and stared at the thick line of trees that were passing us by in a blur. The radio he had on played some type of folk music, the volume turned down low, so I couldn’t make out the words. Not that I could understand anyway.
I didn’t speak Romanian. Although I did brush up on a few key terms before my trip, wanting to be respectful, so I could say thank you, please, and ask where the bathroom was. Things like that, although I just shook my head and once again felt like a complete lunatic for what I was doing.
The rental host, Andrei, had arranged the car ride—thank God for that, ‘cause I’d for sure be up shit creek—and I realized I was putting a lot of trust in a complete stranger, but when in Rome, and all that.
The driver started to say something, his words broken but clear enough I knew what he meant.
We’d be there shortly.
He pointed to the forest, but I couldn’t understand most of what he said. But I feel like I got the gist of it, as if he were… warning me? Maybe he was talking about wolves? Bears? Other wild animals that lurked in the dark, deep in the woods? A shiver wracked through me.
But I didn’t think too much about any of that. It wouldn't do me any good. Instead, I shifted into the center seat and stared out the front window. I had my hands braced on the seat on either side of me, this car so old that the lack of seatbelts should’ve been horrifying, but instead, it transported me back to another time when people said “fuck you” to safety regulations.
The little town of Dobravina, Romania, came into view, and I actually sucked in a breath at how gorgeous the village was. Definitely transported back in time.
Nestled between the thick jut of trees that sprouted from the ground, it seemed quaint but mystical. When I’d been searching for places to stay, I knew I wanted to be somewhere east in Europe. I didn’t know why I felt that pull, but it had been there, incessant, and there was no swaying my decision.
Maybe it was my curiosity and fascination with folklore, vampires and werewolves, demons and all those mythical things. And although I knew they were just stories, the very idea of being at the heart of where some of those tales originated seemed wildly interesting to me.
And here I was. In Dobravina, Romania.