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Shadow hands me a glass of tepid water, which has been sitting on the nightstand. I wince as I carefully sit up in bed and accept the drink. Guzzling the water down in a few large gulps, I move to place the empty glass on the nightstand, but the pain in my clavicle stops me cold.
He takes it from my hand gently as I let out an exasperated breath and fall back onto the pillow. “You should get some rest,” he mutters as he takes a seat on the wooden chair at my bedside.
“Are you just going to watch me?”
My question is met with silence. The man understands his presence is unwelcome. Maybe this will spurn him enough to leave me alone for a while.
“I’m sorry,” I say as a shadow of guilt washes over me. “I’m just…exhausted.”
Shadow stands from the chair and opens the top drawer of the nightstand. Pulling out an antique hand mirror, he holds it at his side for a while before handing it to me.
I stare at him for a moment, wondering what he’s doing. “What’s that? I don’t need that,” I reply defensively.
He squints his eyes as his gaze remains locked on the blanket that covers my legs. He’s not going to answer my question and, apparently, he’s also not going to look at me. Now that I think about it, he’s been avoiding looking at my face. Am I disfigured?
Panic rattles my bones as I’m overcome with a strong urge to knock the mirror out of his hand. But I don’t. The part of me that slows down on the highway whenever I pass a car wreck is the same part of me that needs to know.
I use my good arm to take the mirror from his large hand, and I hold it up to my face without hesitation. My eyes widen as my brain processes the image reflected.
My nose and eyelids are a shiny, swollen pink. My brown hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and tiny shards of glass sparkle in my hairline. A screaming red laceration slashes across my forehead. The cut has been closed with butterfly tape. I vaguely remember the blood spilling into my eyes as someone dragged me out of the car.
A movement catches my eye, and I turn to find Shadow looking directly at me. He reaches up and nods as he touches the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. He’s telling me to look at my injury. Tilting the mirror downward, I swallow hard when I see the black and blue bruising along the top-right side of my chest.
“I made you a sling,” he says, his tone soft and reassuring.
I drop the mirror onto my belly. “Thank you.”
He returns a few minutes later with a large sheet of beige canvas fabric, which appears to have some grayish grease stains he unsuccessfully attempted to wash out. A red nylon strap—which looks suspiciously like the cargo tie-down straps I carry in the trunk of my SUV—has been crudely sewn onto the canvas.
He holds the homemade sling close to his chest. “It ain’t too pretty, but it oughta work. I…I can help you put it on.”
I grit my teeth as I imagine he’d love to help me put it on. “I think I can manage.”
He nods and hands me the sling. I sit up a bit straighter and take the crudely made contraption from his hand, noting the dirt under his fingernails. I’m surprised by the weight of the sling. The canvas he used to construct the makeshift bandage is thick. I pull the red strap over my head and attempt to raise my arm high enough to slip my elbow inside, but the shooting pain in my clavicle stops me.
I wince as I slide the strap off my head and lay the sling in my lap. “This is supposed to have Velcro on the strap, so it goes on and off without further injury.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I ain’t got no Velcro.” He looks disappointed in himself. “You should be able to put it on if you slide your arm in first, then lower your head to pull the strap over.”
With a heavy sigh, I pick up the sling again and carefully slide my arm into the canvas part. Bending my head forward as far as I can, I still can’t get the strap over and around the back of my neck. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, I let out a frustrated grunt and throw the sling at the window just beyond the foot of the bed. It lands softly on the wooden floor. Not nearly as dramatic as I’d hoped for, but the force of my anger makes my head throb and my vision cloudy.
Shadow steps toward the window. “I can help you put it on…if you want.”
I bite my lip, breathing heavily through my nose as I contemplate allowing this stranger to touch me. Taking a glance around the room, I try to memorize as many details as I can, just in case I have to describe this place to law enforcement later.
There are no picture frames on the walls, just a plaque engraved with the ten commandments and another with the serenity prayer. The circular table in the corner is covered in a lace tablecloth on which stands a hurricane lamp, the dusty, cream lampshade adorned with a delicate rose design. The drywall is yellowed in the top corner, near a water stain in the rusted tin ceiling. Beige lace curtains flutter in the soft breeze coming through the cracked window.
Perhaps I should lie to Shadow and tell him I’m pregnant. Didn’t I read in a book that men are less likely to rape a woman if they know she’s with child? Maybe I’m just making that up.
I nod, and Shadow nods back before stooping down to pick up the sling from the floor. His eyes are still cast downward as he approaches. Then, he studies my arm as he rounds the foot of the bed to come to my right side. His gaze flits toward my eyes as he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress.
Taking a deep breath, he waits a few seconds before he looks me in the eye. “Let me know if it hurts, and I’ll stop.”
I swallow hard and nod again, desperately hoping he’s referring to the application of the sling.
His gaze drops to my right arm, and a slight smile plays on his lips. “You have a tattoo.”
I glance down and smile at the tattoo of a purple elephant on the inside of my forearm. “It’s…my father.”
I’m glad he doesn’t ask what I mean by this.
He moves slowly as he reaches forward and slides the canvas under my hand. Sweat beads on his forehead and his skin flushes pink as he carefully slides my hand through the hole. Pulling the sling into place around my elbow, he adjusts it around my upper and lower arm. His eyes flit toward mine again, then he reaches for the red strap.
“Lower your head…please.”
I can smell him now. He smells like gasoline and sweat, but I find the scent oddly comforting.
Letting out a deep breath, I close my eyes as I bow my head.
“This might hurt a little,” he whispers, and the sensation of his breath in my hair sends a chill down my spine.
My heartbeat thuds inside my aching skull as he slowly but firmly pushes my head down a bit more until my chin is pressed against my sore chest. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tighter as he slides the strap over my hair and a flare of white-hot pain shoots through my clavicle. I’m about to cry out for him to stop when he pulls his hands away, and the mattress creaks as he quickly rises from the bed.
I open my eyes, and he takes a step back. He can’t get away fast enough.
“That should work,” he says, rounding the foot of the bed.
My eyes fill with tears as I’m overcome with guilt for questioning his intentions. He’s near the door when a whimper escapes my lips, stopping him in his tracks.
He grips the door frame as he turns his head. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I blubber, wiping away the tears with my good hand. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”
He seems confused by this response. “Then, why are you crying?”
He’ll think I’m utterly insane if I tell him I’m crying because he didn’t hurt me, as I thought he would. “I’m scared…and tired,” I reply truthfully. “And I want to go home.”
He seems to consider this for a moment, then he takes a seat in the chair at my bedside again. “It’s about three a.m. I reckon you should get some sleep, and I’ll show you your car in the morning.”
“Is it totaled?”
His brows scrunch together. “I don’t think you’ll be driving it anytime soon.”
/> My entire body aches as this news sinks in. “Can you at least bring me my phone? It was on the passenger seat right before I crashed. It might be on the floor or somewhere else.”
He stares at the worn wood floor as he responds, “I’ll look for it.” He’s silent for a moment before he looks up. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing out on that road at this time of night?”
I gaze into his blue eyes, and my heart stops as I realize I can’t remember where I was going or why I was headed there.
All I can remember is wishing I was sitting in the backseat of my dad’s Volvo, then the GPS and electrical system in my car failed, and I crashed. I can’t remember sliding into the driver’s seat or entering a destination address into the navigation system. I can’t even remember where I live.
“I have amnesia,” I proclaim, my voice high-pitched as anxiety thickens my throat. “Oh, God. I can’t remember my name. What if I have a brain injury? What if I die? I can’t die out here!”
“Calm down,” he demands.
The last thing I see is his large, dirty hands coming straight for my neck.
Cloud of Dust
