​The song

I’m sharing a mystery/psychological story with you, let me know what you think. Cheers!!

That day I woke up earlier than usual; I didn’t even need to snooze my alarm. I hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since five in the morning, when I first heard that D major chord. The opening chord of the song that had been playing nonstop since early morning. What kind of idiot plays music so loud? And such an old song with such macabre lyrics to start the day: “Run for Your Life” by the Beatles, or so Shazam told me.

While I was making breakfast, I listened to the first verses of the song, trying to act like nothing was wrong. The truth is, I was really angry; my only desire was to enjoy the absolute silence while I managed to fully wake up. I started yelling:

“Hey, you music scoundrel, it’s not the right time, I’m going to report you.”

Rage took hold of me in an inexplicable way; I swear if I’d had a knife and that guy was standing in front of me, I would have stabbed him in the ears.

I’m not an aggressive person, really. But I have a bad temper at 5 in the morning, I guess that’s understandable.

When I got to work, my coworker was listening to the radio; that same song was playing. I’d never heard it before, and today was the second time. This time it was playing very quietly, but the lyrics kept repeating in my head: “Well, I’d rather see you dead, little girl.”

Little girl. That’s how I felt at that job: the little girl who brought the coffee, the one who always put on a happy face. That thought left a bitter taste in my mouth, as if I really was one and everyone knew it but me.

My boss greeted me by showing off his enormous, white teeth—false, obviously. He thinks I don’t know, but his face is 80% plastic; sometimes I think that when he dies they shouldn’t bury him, but throw him in the yellow bin and recycle him. That way he’d contribute something to this society.

I like him, in case I hadn’t mentioned it. We’re great friends. It’s true that he’s the boss and I’m just a little girl.

The song is getting louder and louder, and I ask Rosa from HR if she can turn it down; it’s distracting me. Another shameless woman. I wonder if I’d rather see her dead, like the song. I think so.

My workday ends about 45 minutes later than I’m paid to be there, but we all know how modern life works: if you don’t live to work, you’re literally worthless. So every day I pretend to stay an extra 45 minutes working, when in reality I’m just Googling the best ways to dispose of a body. It’s just a hobby; I find it fascinating.

At the supermarket, hearing “You’d better run for your life, little girl” again is hilarious when you see a hysterical mother chasing her 4-year-old daughter down the detergent aisle while holding a can of window cleaner and begging her to buy her that purple juice.

It’s getting louder and louder. Are we in a supermarket or a concert hall? Who controls the music in this place? Why are people so incredibly incompetent?

It gets louder and louder, harder and harder to ignore. I’m starting to think it’s not just bad luck anymore. That it’s following me. That it’s trying to tell me something. “Run for your life.” I wonder if I should be worried.

I try to forget about it, but the melody is still there, like an alarm I don’t know how to turn off.

I get home, I’m alone. I was meeting up with the new guy from Tinder today; he seems nice, he seems normal. That’s pretty rare these days. Am I normal? I know there won’t be a single answer.

I get ready, I put on makeup, I look like a different person. The song keeps playing, but I don’t know where it’s coming from anymore; maybe it’s in my head. That happens a lot: they call them music worms.

When I get to the bar, I say hi. He smiles at me and seems nice. He smells good, at least he’s not disgusting. A lot of people are. He’s made a good impression on me; I don’t seem like I have anything to fear for.

We have dinner, we talk, there seems to be attraction. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way; I’m pretty rusty, I’d say I’m a virgin again. Is that even possible?

He invites me to his place; I really want to go, but the song is playing—this time for real—in the pub, really loud, an electronic version; we can barely hear each other talking. He gets really close and asks if I want to come over, baby. He called me baby. The attraction I felt fades; now it evokes feelings completely opposite to what I felt before. Something inside me tells me to leave, but another part wants to see what happens if I don’t. Nevertheless, I go to his place.

When I walk in, the apartment seems very well-maintained, tidy, and clean. He’s quite a catch, but all I want is to sleep with him. Or so I think. When we go to his room, the music is way too loud; I can’t think straight, I just hear the melody and the lyrics hammering in my head. I think I’ve drunk too much, I think coming here was a bad idea.

The music gets even louder and everything goes blurry, as if my brain suddenly shuts down.

A D major chord plays again. I wake up in bed, the neighbor again; she never tires of bothering me at this hour of the morning. I have a faint scent of men’s cologne clinging to my skin that I can’t identify. And a strange ache in every muscle of my tiny body. I turn on the radio and they’re announcing the terrible disappearance of Marc, a promising tech entrepreneur. He seems to have vanished; he was last seen in a pub having a drink and now there’s no trace of him. Poor guy, I wonder what happened to him. It’s fascinating how people disappear, how they manage to leave no trace; it’s the kind of thing that makes you fear for your life. “Run for Your Life” plays next on the radio. Definitely a great song.