Page 129 of Misery
I've spent the night on the floor by the door, watching her sleep in my bed.
Just... ensuring she's safe, that she hasn't left.
That this isn't another nightmare where I wake up and she's gone.
The irony isn't lost on me—still watching, just with her knowing I’m doing it now.
She's curled on her side, my shirt swallowing her frame.
Dark hair spread across my pillow like spilled ink.
The two USB drives sit on the nightstand between us like loaded weapons, evidence of everything wrong we've done.
Her face is softer in sleep, the constant tension she carries finally released.
No paint under her nails for once.
No phone clutched in her hand waiting for bad news.
She's beautiful like this. But then, she's always beautiful.
The floor is killing my back, but I don't move.
Can't risk waking her when she's finally resting.
It's been forty-eight hours of pure adrenaline and trauma.
Her father tortured.
Thiago dead by my and his now ex-girlfriend’s hand.
The truth about my surveillance exposed.
Any one of those would break most people, but Elfe doesn't break.
She bends, sometimes to the point where you think she'll snap, but she always springs back.
I know because I've watched her do it since she was attacked.
Her breathing changes.
The soft rhythm shifting to awareness.
I know this pattern too—how she wakes slowly, fighting consciousness like it's an enemy.
Her eyes open, unfocused, then sharp when she remembers where she is.
My room. My bed. My shirt.
"Have you been here all night?" Her voice is rough with sleep.
"Yes."
She sits up, the shirt sliding off one shoulder. "On the floor?"
"Yes."
"That's stupid. Your bed is big enough for two."
