She woke up with a terrible headache and couldn't remember what had really happened the night before. The phone was lying haphazardly on the bed and the table lamp was half bent. She looked around as she pushed herself up. Her back hurt but her hair was neatly tied.

She tried to recollect—perhaps she had tied her hair and had forgotten to let it down and slept unaware. She stood up searching for her slippers, but they were not there.

Hearing a muffled sound from the bathroom, she tiptoed there. The light was lit and the faucet was turned on. Her earrings were there and the tub was filled, it was pouring all night.

Staring at herself in the mirror, she saw a bruise on her face, like someone had slapped her hard. One finger was still accurately marked there—it had turned black. As she registered this, the pain of the blow became real. She looked closely and there was a mark on her hands like someone had tried to force something on her.

Her heart started pulsating hard, and she splashed water on her face. Her face looked different. Not the way she remembered — it was swollen, but she couldn't understand what really went wrong. She swayed back to the bed.

She sat quietly placing her legs carefully, and for a moment a painful memory ran across her mind, and now her head was aching too.

Putting her phone on charge, she casually lay down on the bed. She woke up after two hours — this time she was feeling better, the phone was fully charged and it showed multiple missed calls from an unknown number.

For a moment everything was collapsing around her. It was weird and unusual and she couldn't remember who she was.

She stood up again and saw a beautiful picture of a mother carrying her baby — a tear rolled down her cheek. No wonder she was sobbing like a kid — her head hurt and she couldn't figure who she was!

The window was open, and a warm breeze blew in — it touched her face and suddenly she realized that she was alive and felt okay.

After foraging the room, she finally checked her bag and found heavy makeup, cash and her Id card— Ruby Mathur, Address: Grant Road, Mumbai.

The more she tried to remember, the more her head ached. Racked with pain, she lied down on the floor. From the corner of her eye, she noticed her slippers were underneath the king-sized bed.

She started regaining her senses. She remembered standing near a huge hotel, and the pain hit back once again — it was intermittent but had a drastic impact.

The only way to connect the dots was by using her phone — the contact list was hard to read because she was drowsy and the numbers jumped and danced before her eyes. With trepidation, she placed herself on the bed just to feel better.

After one hour she came back to her senses, and her head didn't hurt this time — whatever it was, it had run its course.

She heard a bell ring and fear ran down her spine. She reluctantly looked through the eye hole and saw a man in his thirties — holding a bag. His hair was untidy but he looked flamboyant.

She unbolted the door. He fucked her again — drugged her — and fucked again.

She forgot she was a prostitute regularly picked up near The Taj, Mumbai.