An IV bag dripped steadily above her.
Layla stared vacantly at the long thin tube that ran down to her uninjured arm where it was attached at the wrist.
Her mind began to resurface from the cloudy fog, the residuals of anesthesia fading as faint pulses of pain ran along her injured elbow.
It wasn't as jarring but the sensation made her aware of the room and her body's state.
She blinked slowly and swallowed, feeling a sharp stab in her throat.
Thirsty, the voice arose from the depths of sleep with a vague reminder that she was human and needed to be sustained.
Her eyes roamed the room and finally settled on the nightstand where a tall glass of water was placed on a coaster; the walls beaded with sweat droplets.
Reach for the glass.
And she almost did but a familiar voice cut through her ignorance like an unsheathed sword.
It would be wise of you, next time, to not use those limbs until you feel better
Suddenly she looked at her arm encased in the heavy plaster with the edges of her pale fingers poking out and covered in flaking skin.
"My arm," her voice was raw and thin from days of disuse.
Layla licked her chapped lips and spoke, "... what happened?"
How did she end up like this?
And where was she?
How did—
You ran.
Suddenly fragmented memories bled beneath her eyelids like the dyeing of cloth.
She was running from someone and the mansion behind her receded with every terrified step she took in the direction of the cars.
A nasty stab pierced her chest as the sirens went off but that was quickly drowned out by the thudding of blood in her ears.
Her vision had narrowed to the cars all lined up at the front; a variety for different occasions. Her elder loved collectibles and his taste was eclectic yet rich.
In her hand was the car key which she fumbled with, trying to grip tightly due to the sweat slicking her palms. It was a wonder she was able to hold onto the keys all this while. Later, while on the road she would find a series of minute cuts from where the blunt edges bit into the heels of her palms.
If I fail—
If I get caught—
She was breathing hard now while fumbling with the unlock button.
If I don't make it—
The pole was already erected in the middle of his bedroom to satiate his nightly fantasy; one which required her to wear his wife's clothes and perfume that stung her eyes every time she inhaled too quickly.
In her twenty-two years at the harvest farm, the elder had not once left her alone. She was either supervised or leashed to him.
Yet tonight he had lowered his guard for a moment's respite to fill his whiskey tumbler.
And she realized then that it was now or never.
There had been a lull in security as the guards rotated shifts and as a result the parking was left unattended. The car that responded to her keys happened to be a sedan with an engine that caught speed at the lightest of heel pressure.
She drove over a guard while careening towards the gate, her foot pressed hard on the accelerator.
Leyla blinked slowly and gripped the sheet with her good hand as though to ground herself in this new bedroom away from his bed. This new ceiling with its archaic web-like cracks and dusty smell, so far from the elder's clean home.
This wasn't the harvest farm.
"I made it." She whispered, small and unsure of the reality which she lay in now.
Like a fragile existence which, if she spoke too loud, might shatter and thrust her back into the kennel she had been given as a bed outside his door.
The disbelief made her voice waver. A mist of tears began to creep over her eyes and she sniffled loudly.
A door in the distance creaked open.
Layla stiffened on the bed, her eyes swivelling in the direction of the bedroom door which had been cracked open just enough for her to see a hallway lit dimly with bulbs.
The floor had a dusty red runner, and from where she lay she caught glimpses of a banister that must overlook the ground floor.
Boots thumped in one place.
A slight grunt as a jacket was shrugged off.
Yellow-rimmed eyes flashed before her eyes, the cut of a jaw softened by the glow of the nightlamp, and a gravel voice speaking in worn authority.
Don't.
Was this the foreigner's house?
The lull of security that was sparking within her gutted out like a candle in the wind. A cold sweat broke out across her back and that sharp pain in her chest returned as the heavy feet moved from one end of the room to the next.
He didn't climb the staircase though. The sound of rustling bags followed him like a shadow and his movements receded into another room, probably the kitchen.
Leyla watched the door for a long moment before her attention was snagged by the cool glass within arm's reach.
"Use your good hand." She croaked.
Carefully she raised herself onto the elbow of her good hand, dragging her heavy legs beneath the blanket.
It took a moment to catch her breath and let the wave of dizziness abate.
The clang of pots and pans being set on a stove preceded by the clicking sound of the gas being lit filled the home.
Nudging herself back until she was leaning on the headboard, Layla took a deep breath and finally got a proper look of the room, not that it had changed, but there was in the corner a pale and a bucket with folded clothes beside it. The same ones he had used on her forehead.
She reached for the glass of water and nearly groaned in relief when her fingers made contact with the cool surface. Lifting the glass to her lips she drank in gulps, her throat jerking with the peristalsis movement.
A shudder ran down her body and she shivered delightfully.
She paused to catch her breath, and that's when she noticed the silence.
Leyla stared at the door in curiosity.
Did he leave?
Her knuckles paled around the glass.
Did she hear the door creaking?
Surely she would have heard.
He didn't leave.
Her stomach dropped.
The turmoil of thoughts in her mind calmed just enough for her to hear the creak of a loose staircase.
Layla quietly leaned over the nightstand pinching her lips as a lance of pain jolted up her elbow. She set the glass down and began to scoot under the blankets with a horrible sense of urgency.
The next step was much closer, his pacing eerily similar to a predator closing in on its prey.
Had he sensed her waking?
How had he been able to hear her?
Which human could have—
He isn't human, was the last voice she heard as her eyes slipped shut, the cracked ceiling above drowned in a cloud of utter blackness. Her breaths evened out and the cadence of her breathing grew steady.
One… two… three…
Back in the farm she had learned to endure certain tasks the elder would give her. Some days if she did not please him well enough, she would endure the gaping stares of his guests as she knelt naked by the front door with a plaque hung around her neck.
In those moments of humiliation and fear, her mind had formed a cocoon of safety where she could easily retreat into. It was a room that the elder did not know about nor could he reach her unless she wanted him to. In this room, Leyla had found a child that resembled an rabid thing, homeless, covered in grime and matted hair.
And that child would be counting to a certain number, its voice a soothing lull.
In that room, Leyla was safe with the child.
Four… Five… Six…
The child was where she expected her to be. Her hand is clammy and fragile as a bird's bone in her grasp. She had started counting before Leyla could join.
Her muscles loosened and her breath synced, and for a dull breath she almost surrendered to the child's soothing voice–
When an exhale of air brushed her ear.
Seven… Eight… Nine
The bedroom window had been shut, she was sure of this during her time awake.
Ten… Eleven… Twelve…
Another puff of air; a breath, steady and threaded with something sweet— she heard teeth clicking with dull chewing.
The figure beside her suddenly moved away as his hand alighted on her cast briefly, fixing something.
When had he crouched low beside her?
The terror of knowing he could move that quietly only after creaking up the staircase…
Unless he wanted you to hear him. That thought gave her pause, the voice continued unabated. He knows you're not sleeping.
Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two…
Her hand with the needle moved slightly as he adjusted the drip bag and now she could hear him move, his steps receding to the corner of the room where the buckets lay.
The temptation to open her eyes into slits and peer at him made her lids twitch but she held fast onto the false slumber.
A cool cloth was placed on her forehead.
It was damp and rivulets trailed down her temples when his finger carefully brushed them away. This time he didn't suck his fingers.
The figure remained by her bedside. She was sure of this because there was a weight to his gaze on her body, and his scent of something musky was hovering there.
And she was right. After a drawn moment, he turned away and headed for the door. Leyla strained her ears to listen for his departure.
His steps halted at the threshold.
One hundred and eight… one hundred and nine… one hundred and ten…
The door creaked open and quietly shut behind him.
Suddenly her lungs ached from the pressure of trying to sync her breath. The small barrel of her chest sunk with the deep exhale of relief and she opened her eyes, staring at the familiar ceiling.
One hundred and ten.
Yet it felt like forever.
The fist in her chest loosened and her head rolled to the side in search of water.
Only to find him standing beside the shut door.
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