Page 104 of Savior

Sloane continues to sneeze and sniffle as I enter her bedroom with chicken soup and some water, along with enough medicines, she should be able to sleep better. The weather has been going from rainy to cold for weeks. It seems Sloane’s immune system has had quite enough of it.

“Chicken noodle soup and water. I didn’t know which medicines you wanted, so I brought all I thought would help. Though I don’t think you can mix these two.” I point out two on the tray as I hover near the side of her bed.

“Thank you,” she manages, her throat sounding as if speaking hurts.

I listened to her cough all night long from the couch. I slept there, perching her door open in case she needed me at night.

“I want to take a hot bath so bad,” she says, “but every time I get up, I get so damned dizzy.”

I nod, taking away the medicines as she chooses a cold medicine with a pain reliever already inside it, discarding the others toward the edge of the tray.

“I could help you if you wanted. I know it won’t be too comfortable, but solely to take care of you. I think we could manage it. Unless you want me to get one of the other men…”

“No,” she cuts me off abruptly, making me laugh.

Ardesia has a handful of men stationed around the island, and we’ve seen them come and go at various times. It’s been nearly two weeks since he dropped us here, and I’m sure there are more I haven’t seen roaming around outside the house.

“Maybe after some rest, we can get you into the shower,” I say as she yawns broadly.

She nods. “Maybe.”

I sit in the chair in the corner as I watch her eat what she can of her soup, down her water, and then lie back to snuggle into the bed.

I disassemble the tray, and she’s asleep by the time I’m back in the room.

Her wispy hair sprawls across her face, and I can’t help but linger close and brush it back. She’s so beautiful that it’s hard to look at her—like she isn’t meant to be ogled at all.

God has a way of making things in this world for a reason, and I’m baffled why he molded her into creation. I’ve often wondered why people like Ray and Belinda are gifted with children they’ll never care for.

They’d let Sloane down in more ways than I likely will ever know.

She opened up to me last night, and it felt like I was stepping into a forbidden museum where I didn’t know how many art pieces I’d get to look at or if I’d ever come back. So I’d inhaled every bit of information she gave me, storing it away to understand better who Sloane is.

I’m beginning to believe she’s one of the best people I know.

Returning to the bible on my lap, I continue reading where I left off or trying to. My brain is too full of worries and memories I can’t stop dwelling on.

Worries about how this will end.

Everything comes to an eventual end, and there’s a latent anxiety gnawing at my soul in anticipation of this one. Along with questions of my faith, morality, and thoughts of her on her knees…

No.

I scrub the thought from my head, closing the bible a bit loudly, wincing as I look up to ensure I haven’t startled Sloane from her slumber.

But I find her thrashing on the bed in little abrupt movements, her brows knitted together on her forehead, and her body writhing in some dream fugue. One that looks to be a nightmare.

“No, no,” she’s whimpering repeatedly.

She’s vulnerable, I realize.

She’s open and raw in her sleep state, as we all are as we rest.

And what she avoids during the daytime haunts her while her eyes are closed.

“Shh,” I tell her, sitting on the side of the bed and gently running my hand over her cheek. “You’re alright. You’re not alone.”

A hot tear comes from her closed eye, and I let it seep into my thumb as it brushes over it. It’s as if I let her sadness intertwine with my heart and soul, taking on some of her burden.

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