AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Then she cries out, “Let me go.” She pushes hard against my chest, kicking her legs, trying to get away from me.
“Alright, calm down.” I loosen my grip and let her scuttle away, across the bed to the far corner. She is cowering against the wall and pulling at the blankets trying to hide beneath them. I shake my head and rest my face in my hands, rubbing my eyes. I am exhausted.
It has been a week since she woke up and this is the first time she has let me hold her, even though it was only for a few seconds. She has not spoken to me or acknowledged me in any positive way.
I am at my wit’s end. I cannot believe how frustrating it is.
“You are not making this easy,” I say in annoyance. “All I want to do is help you.”
Her bright green eyes are wide and glaring. They’re red from crying.
I force a smile on my lips. “At least I know you can speak. I was beginning to wonder.”
She bites at her bottom lip in silence.
“Are you alright? Was it another bad dream? The doctor told me after yesterday’s visit that he can give you something to help you sleep, something to help with the nightmares. It will make you groggy, though. It’s up to you.”
She shakes her head.
“He’s coming in again today to remove the stitches.”
Nothing.
“Are you hungry?”
She nods.
I sigh, spreading my arms out at my sides and shrugging. “I really don’t know what to do with you.”
I stand up and head towards the kitchen to organize something for her to eat. At least she has been eating a lot and over the past week, she seems to have regained a lot of her strength. She kicks harder and twists the blankets more when she fights them. She glares at me with more defiance. These are all annoying yet positive signs.
Once I have ordered her something for lunch I head back to her room. She is looking the smallest bit more relaxed.
The horrible visions of her dreams have faded a little and she is looking around the room.
“Will you ever tell me your name?” I ask.
Nothing.
“Will you at least tell me how long you were in the container? Or what happened to you?”
She looks down and a single tear falls down her cheek.
I have asked her these same questions every day, more than once a day, and she has given me nothing. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps they had cut her tongue out or damaged her voice somehow, but now I have heard her speak. It was clear and loud. Her voice is not the problem, which is a relief. Yet, I’m still no closer to knowing anything.
I stare at her enchanting features for a while. Her eyes no longer have those dark shadows beneath them, and her cheeks are no longer sunken in. The bruises are not gone, but they are fading. Every day her beauty becomes more and more obvious.
The chef walks in with a tray of food and her face lights up. This is the only time I see her looking anything but miserable or angry.
“I made you lamb stew this afternoon,” the chef says, smiling at her and placing the tray on the table.
“Thank you,” she says softly and he freezes in shock. I freeze as well. We are both staring at her. She pulls the tray closer.
The chef straightens his back and says, “It is my pleasure.” Noticing the tight look on my face, he nods and leaves.
Why does he get a thank you? After all that I have done to try and help her—she says thank you to him, not me.
I stand up, feeling even more frustrated.
