Unable to remember when I woke up is terrifying. Even worse is not knowing how I ended up here. Want a little more TERROR spice in the plot? I don’t even know where “here” is.

Astonished, confused, I look around. Gathering information: here is a busy street. People rushing back and forth. Abnormal normalities. And a sour smell in the air. A sour smell, indeed. Dry hands. Damp air. Nerves and skin. It’s me, but… who am I, after all?

What do you do in a situation like this? The only thing possible: ask for directions. Ask where I am, of course. But… what a weird question that is. “Where am I?” Doesn’t sound right. It’s better to ask for the name of the street. I do that. A woman with a child in her arms. She looks at me strangely. Suspicious of me. As far as I remember, I don’t pose a threat. What’s with this crazy smell?

She responds:

– Soleneve Street.

Soleneve? I’ve never heard anything like that. Complicated. It’s better to ask for the name of the neighborhood. Taking advantage of the suspicious citizen, I ask. She responds:

– Purple Pine – she says while giving me a good look from head to toe.

I repeat to myself: “Purple Pine, Purple Pine…” Indeed, I don’t know any neighborhood called Purple Pine in Floripa, and as far as I know… Wait. What if I’m not in Floripa? That would explain the strange smell in the air.

Was I kidnapped? Sleepwalking? Multiple personalities? Suddenly, I’m invaded by a feeling that this story is not mine.

Terrified. Close to desperation. Where am I? I check my reflection in a store window. It’s me, after all. At least that.

I approach a police officer. I ask for the name of the city. He puts his hand on his gun but doesn’t draw it. Just prepared. Suspicious of me. He looks me up and down. And his hand on the gun. Is he going to draw it? Is he? He doesn’t draw it. He just responds, suspiciously:

– Good Gold.

Good Gold????

Is there a city called Good Gold in Santa Catarina? I’ve never heard anything like it… Unless… Oh, no! Unless I’m not in Santa Catarina. The situation couldn’t be worse. Or could it?

The police officer still looks at me suspiciously. Hand on the gun. Waiting for my reaction. I decide to take a chance:

– Officer, can you tell me which state in Brazil we’re in?

He furrows his brow. Seconds later, he smirks:

– Brazil? Brazil??? – He starts laughing. – Every crazy person I come across – And he leaves, laughing.

Everything spins around me. Malfunction. Panic. I lack ground. I lack air.

Sleepwalking is ruled out. Multiple personalities too. I couldn’t leave the country like this. Or could I? Definitely, I think I was kidnapped. And how did I escape? Damn it, what do I do now? Maybe contact the consulate. How am I going to explain how I ended up in this place when I don’t even know where this place is?

I need to find out which country I’m in. I must be close to the airport or a port if they brought me by ship. In either case, I can get information that will help me figure out what happened.

I stop a boy who looks at me suspiciously.

– Hey, kid, tell me something: what’s the name of this country?

– Huh?

– The name of this country, damn it, what is it?

– Darfoland.

– Darfo what?

– Darfoland.

– What the hell…? Darfoland??? But, in what damn place on Earth is this Darfoland?

He looks at me with a funny face.

– Earth? Earth??? – And he disappears into the crowd, laughing hysterically.


Juliano Martinz is a writer, biographer, and creator of the website Corrosiva Literature.

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