Page 6 of Laila Manning
“Laila,” I repeated when she froze with her hand on her doorknob, refusing to turn around and look at me.
God, she was infuriating.
And perfect.
And scarred.
And flawless.
I stood in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge me. I was always waiting for those bottomless brown eyes to meet mine, and it usually took her a while, but she eventually always looked at me.
But not for long. Laila never held a person’s stare for more than a few seconds at a time.
She sighed and dropped her hand off her doorknob before squaring her shoulders like she was mustering up the physical strength to look at me.
And then she did.
And it was like every other time that she made eyecontact with me.
Everything else faded away, and I was lost to the pain and darkness inside of her soul, shining through her brown and golden eyes.
“That’s better,” I said, acknowledging her effort to look at me. “Let me see your hand.”
She flicked her glance past my head to the ceiling, and her nostrils flared a few times like she was on the edge of losing her composure completely, but eventually, she raised her hand to the space between us and swallowed. “It’s fine.”
I glanced down at her hand and saw the angry red welt on the webbed flesh between her thumb and first finger and grimaced. “That’s not fine.” She looked down at her hand and then dropped her shoulders, accepting the truth. “Come with me,” I took her good hand, touching her for the first time while she was awake, and fought the full-body tremor that tried to lead my body into convulsions. I pulled her behind me to my door and felt her fight my hold as I opened it and led her inside. “I have burn cream.”
“It’s fine.” She tried again, but I ignored her. It was surreal having her inside my space, but it didn’t feel wrong either. “Zeke.” She dug her heels in when we were in the center of the studio apartment, making me stop. “I can’t.”
I turned around and faced her again, noting the way her eyes flicked back and forth over the furniture inside of the space, and then to the windows on the wall on each side of my bed, and the closed door to my bathroom.
“Why?” I asked, keeping her hand in mine as she took a step back, and then another. I followed her move, keeping the same amount of space between us as she tried to retreat. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t.” She repeated before closing her eyes and shaking her head. “It’s too small.” Her chest rose and fell, straining against the white fabric of her uniform top. “I can’t be in here.”
“Shh.” I tried to soothe her, but as I tried to rub her arm, she flinched and pulled back, breaking all physical contact. I tried to ignore how her reaction to my touch felt, but that was impossible.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, backing up again until she was in the doorway to my apartment. “I can’t come inside.” Her eyes were wide, and I recognized the panic building inside of her, so I didn’t chase or confront her about it.
“I’m sorry.” I held my hands up, showing I was giving up. “I’m just trying to help.”
Her lips quivered as she cradled her burned hand against her stomach, fluttering with each breath, like she was on the verge of losing all control. “I’m past the point of help, Zeke.” She shook her head again as a tear slid over the edge of her eyelashes, “I’m too far gone.”
“You’re not,” I said firmly but didn’t close the distance like I wanted to. I never closed the distance like I wanted to with her, and it sucked. “You just have to let us in. All we want to do is help.”
“I’m sorry.” She said before bolting out the door and straight through hers, turning the locks ominously in her silent wake as she once again hid from the world.
I stood in the center of my apartment, kicking myself for how I had handled her while simultaneously listening for any signs of distress from behind her door. But there were none.
There was always just silence.
From her apartment.
From her.
But I knew without a doubt that there was no silence within her soul. I knew from the times her screams cut through the night that she had no peace.
And I had no fucking place amongst her pain.
