Page 8 of Laila Manning
After we made him beg for death.
Chapter 3 – Laila
Iwatched the blades of fern grass billow in the breeze as I walked up the long path to Carly’s house. The path was familiar, and it had never caused me any pain, yet each time I walked it, it felt like I was nearing my death.
It felt like that every time I walked down any type of path.
A hallway.
A paved sidewalk.
The annoyingly long roped-off queue line at the DMV.
Every path created the same panic inside of me.
The same phantom pain.
As if something at the end of that path would tear another piece from my soul away.
Again, none of those things happened to me after Jed rescued me from the brothel. Regardless, any route felt like a walk to thegallows for me.
Most days, I walked through the grass instead of the paver-lined walkway to the front steps. But today I wanted to be brave. I wanted to force myself to be strong.
Even if I felt anything but.
“Hey,” Carly called, walking out of her front door with a coffee cup in her hand, wrapping a cardigan sweater around her waist tighter. “Brrr, it’s chilly out here.”
“Hi,” I responded on autopilot. “Yeah, I guess winter came early.”
“Hmm.” She hummed and tilted her head. “Porch or inside?”
Every day I walked to Carly’s front porch, and wevisited. Most days we sat next to each other on the front porch, and she chatted aimlessly about her life, and all the great people she surrounded herself with. And I just listened.
Because I couldn’t return her stories or inquiries into my day; I simply had nothing to offer her.
Some days, we went inside her cute little cottage for our visits.
Those were brutal days, but I forced myself to do them anyway. If I didn’t move forward, even on brutal days, I would not get better.
At least that’s what my therapist said.
“Inside.” I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.
Carly’s affectionate smile lit up her face before she forced it back and nodded her head like I’d just said something menial and unimpressive. “Inside, then.” With a soft click, she opened the front door, stepping inside and leaving it slightly open, inviting me to follow at my own pace. The scent of wood-smoke hung in the air.
Even without telling her anything, sheknew.
Carly picked up on things and made observations without asking questions. It was unnerving how much she could piece together from body language and one-word answers. But I guess that was a skill she picked up as a dancer at Ryker’s club.
And probably the fact that she witnessed my torture from inside that hellhole. She simply understood me better.
“So,” Carly called from the kitchen island, where she poured creamer into a cup of tea for me when I finally entered her home. “I was thinking about that stupid barista incident.”
My blood ran cold as my foot landed on the hardwood floor of her foyer, but I forced myself to keep my chest open and unrestricted, forcing full deep breaths of fresh oxygen into my lungs so I didn’t pass out.
Again.
It was mortifying enough the first time I’d done it on her floor.
