Right here. Two losses. Pria… Then, Mother!! (New World)
The door locks by default unless you pull it open from inside, and she was struggling.
I looked up and saw her fumbling.
"Hey," I said. She responded quickly and asked me to grab her bag—she’d left it further away from where she stood. She was breathing as if the world were ending.
I walked her inside. She took a seat, and immediately I knew something was wrong. At first, I thought it was my boss—they’re around the same height—but this woman looked mixed, maybe white and Asian or Indonesian.
I told her, “Right now we’re only serving soft drinks and shisha. We’re not fully open yet.” She asked for a Coke. I gave it to her and told her it was $3. She handed me a $20 bill. I returned $17 in change.
She opened the Coke, took a few sips, then got up and walked closer to where I was. She asked if I could order her an Uber to Werribee. Sure, I said. She pulled out a $50 bill as if she knew the fare. We checked—it was around $45ish. Who wouldn’t help a stranger, a customer, for that matter?
I pulled out my computer, then remembered my SIM card was being retrieved. I paused, feeling the stress of the moment. She was still waiting. After a moment, I said, “Look, I don’t have enough money on my Uber card. My SIM is new—I’m waiting for my old one.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Then she pulled out her card and asked me to use it instead. I handed her the laptop so she could do it herself. While she tried, I made conversation—asked if she lived around here and noticed how she’d struggled with the door.
Yes, she quickly entered her card, but there was another roadblock: she couldn’t receive the secure authentication code from her bank—NAB, I'm pretty sure. This was taking forever. I needed to either help her or let her go so I could return to my work.
She didn’t want to leave. She went back to her seat, still catching her breath, still looking for a solution.
I kept asking, trying to understand what was happening. At first, she said she lived just across the street, 1a Whitehall Street, the ground floor. “Nice,” I said. Then she told me her boyfriend was in jail. Getting out in April. I asked if she lived alone in the building. 'No,' she said—she lived with others and paid $180 a week. “Wow, that’s great,” I replied. She said they were taking advantage of her.
“Who? The people you live with?” I asked. “Where’s your phone?”
She didn’t have one. Maybe lost it, or never had one. I recommend using the Telstra free phone booth. Which I reckon she does.
She gave me her number. I tried calling it quickly—it rang twice before she said I shouldn’t call. I hung up.
She kept trying to arrange an Uber or a taxi. While I worked on the app, she was calling cabs.
I decided to call my boss to see if she could book the ride from her end, and I’d pay her back when she returned. My boss said no. She said the train station was only five minutes away, and Pria could take the train.
In the back of my mind, I knew this girl needed to get home ASAP. She was weak, breathing irregularly and heavily, then disappearing. At one point, she asked, “Can someone hear us?” and looked back. I said no, no one can hear us, as if she wanted to say something secretly. That’s when I really understood: she was not okay and probably hadn’t been for a while.
I looked at her skin. Rough, with needle marks and wounds. One spot looked like she’d been injected over and over. Pria looked like she was in her thirties. I later learned from the ambulance crew she’d just turned thirty—after she’d passed.
“Look,” I said, “why don’t we try the train?” I didn’t tell her my boss refused. I stayed polite. I knew Pria needed help. Maybe she couldn’t find it anywhere on the streets of Melbourne. And sadly, even when she did, she wouldn’t live to see 2026.
She asked if I’d walk her to the train. I almost agreed—her bag was a bit heavy. She was carrying a large Christian Dior handbag and wearing a luxury cologne. She smelled really nice.
While this unfolded, I asked, out of curiosity, who she was going to see in Werribee. She said she’d known him since she was six, or six years of friendship. I can’t recall clearly.
(Paramedics had exhausted all available medical resources)
When Uber and taxis didn’t work, she had another idea. She used my Facebook to search for someone named Tom. She found him, sent a friend request, and tried calling. Facebook blocks calls if you’re not friends. She left a message: “Call me.” I added: “It’s Pria.” So Tom would know.
We waited. Nothing came through Facebook.
I tried something else: I walked outside, hoping to find someone hopping out of an Uber. The street feels like a dead end—two giant buildings, one full of students, the other under construction.
Finally, I saw a car that looked like it might be a ride-share. After a few failed attempts, I got one driver’s attention.
I leaned in. “Please, we need help.
This lady needs an Uber but can’t book one. She has the money. I held up the $50 bill. “She’s a lady. This is the cash.” The driver agreed, reversed, and waited.
Pria hesitated. I urged her, “This is the Uber. Let’s go, she’s waiting.” I thickened my tone so she’d comply. She stood, walked out, and asked me to carry her bag. I did.
Just steps from the car, she went blank. Started to stagger, moving unsteadily. I thought, if she falls on this concrete, it’ll be bad. Right after that thought, I dropped her bag, trying to guide her into the car. She slumped. I managed to turn her face towards her bag as she fell—her body twisted awkwardly. I struggled to position her safely, supporting her with my body.
Immediately, I called Triple Zero. The operator asked where I was. “Victoria. 1A Whitehall Street.”
(Pria is receiving CPR from paramedics)
Soon, fire services arrived, and that was after I had been exhausted with CPR and with a bystander who decided to help by continuing the conversation with the help centre. Not long thereafter, they pulled up and began professional CPR. They tore her clothes open and pumped her chest. After a while, Pria began to vomit. I was a bit delighted that she's been revived.
An officer took my statement. Not long after, the news came: she had passed. They waited for the coroner/mortuary attendants. A crime scene banner went up.
Today, I have an appointment with Senior Detective Glen Martin at 3 PM at Footscray Police Station to give an official statement. If I had a regular job, I’d have to take time off.
I went in to meet the senior detective. And I was there before 3pm on that very faithful day. He was a bit late and apologised; he went for lunch or something, he added.
Yes, he flipped open his laptop, looked up at me, and asked, “You’re Destiny Chioma?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He was professional, calm, and surprisingly compassionate. You could tell he wasn’t just there to do a job—he was trying to help. He even looked into mental health support for me, something to ease the weight of witnessing death firsthand. It was needed, and the fact that it was available without cost made it an easy decision.
A week later, I received an email about the support services. But I didn’t show up to it.
My mind was already overwhelmed. I was carrying too much inside to sit in a room and relive it with strangers. While that may help or be a problem-focused coping mechanism, I gave a zero fvck to it.
A week later, they called to follow up—but I still couldn’t do it.
The detective interviewed me thoroughly. I told him exactly what I had told the first officers at the scene—nothing more, nothing less. Just the truth, as it happened.
Pria needed help. She couldn’t get it. And she died on my premises.
What stayed with me was how detailed everything became. Even though we didn’t have cameras inside the lounge yet—we had only just opened—there were traffic cameras and nearby CCTV footage. They traced her movements, step by step, right up to our entrance. He told me they watched the entire sequence unfold.
At the end of it all, he looked at me and said,
“Destiny, you did everything you were supposed to do. Thank you.”
He printed out the report, attached a registry number, and handed it to me.
I thanked him and walked out.
But I didn’t really leave it behind.
That moment replayed in my mind over and over again. It settled deep into my psyche. I tried to cope the best way I knew how—by being around people, staying active, getting out into nature, and eating well. Just doing whatever I could to keep moving.
I kept telling myself, This too will pass.
Over time, that became my way of coping—just pushing forward, staying busy, not sitting too long with the weight of it all.
I focused on building my ePower Energy Project. I read more. I worked. I laughed when I could. On the surface, life kept going.
But losing my mum changed everything. Literally everything, at the same time. I refused to play her the tape before her demise.
About 8 years down the memory lane, I left "Mother" (as we usually call her and others) healthy.
She was beautiful—I used to tell her that all the time. She loved nice watches, loved quality, and always wanted the best for us. She carried herself with quiet strength, grounded in her work and her life. However, she lived all her life with a hostile husband. Bearing a burden too heavy to bear.
I used to tell her she was meant for more—that all the years she gave to her job showed discipline, but she was born for something greater. She’d smile, as she understood, but didn’t quite know how to change course. Maybe she felt it was too late. Like every other person that's trapped in the fvcking system.
As if things couldn’t get any harder, just a few weeks later, I got the call that Mum had passed away.
I was completely shattered—my whole world felt like it was falling apart. It fell.
I tried my best to stay strong by getting some sunlight and spending time with people, especially since we had just opened a new shisha lounge. I kept myself busy there, serving both liquor and shisha with my newly bagged RSA certificate.
I don’t want to make this letter extremely cold, but I’m okay. Mum is at peace now; we've laid her to rest with the Lord, and she will always live on in my heart.
Mum died at 54 years old. So sad.
And then… she was gone. Lost that privilege.
Just like that.
But before she passed, she said something that stayed with me—something that brought me a strange kind of peace. Those words reminded me that sometimes, truly, legends don’t stay long.
Some legends leave early.
And somehow, that truth has been one of the few things holding me together.
Thank you for reading this mindfvcked. I've been hesitant about posting this, and sometimes it feels like a dream that Mum is no longer with us. What a wild world we live in.
Thank you for reading. I'll see you in the next one with lots of goodies.
Until next time
Des
Comments
Post a Comment