Chapter 6 - Lara #2
I’m gentle with my hair, but I still find blood on my hands where the cut is still fragile.
Better to get the dirt out and worry about the bleeding later, though I decide.
There’s a huge bruise across my hip and an even larger one covering my left ribs where I hit the rock.
When the water runs clear and I can’t justify standing under the heat any longer, I shut the water off and grab the towel.
I feel vulnerable with nothing on, already knowing that the lock means nothing, so I pick up my underwear but quickly discard it as ruined, sorting through the clothes he put on the side.
There are two or three options of different sizes, all too big, but I settle on a pair of sweats that I have to roll the waist over twice, and a sweater with a faded logo.
I pocket the knife and finger-comb my hair, turning to look in the mirror; I barely recognize myself for a moment.
I’m just grateful I didn’t look before getting in the shower because I’m sure it was much worse.
My cheeks look hollow; I knew I hadn’t eaten much, but I didn’t realize the effect would be so obvious.
The heat from the shower has brought some color to my cheeks, but overall, I look ghostly pale, which probably looks worse against my dark hair and icy blue eyes.
I can’t even imagine how bad I looked, or smelled, when he found me.
For some stupid reason, that makes me blush, even when I really shouldn’t care, given the circumstances.
I stand there knowing that I’m stalling, but it’s the smell of food that finally has me opening the door and shuffling slowly toward the kitchen.
The smell is savory, something simple like stew ot soup, but right now, it’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled, and my stomach makes a noise it hasn’t done in a long time.
He turns when he hears me approach, and his eyes wash over me briefly, assessing. His expression shifts in a way I can’t decipher before attempting something like neutral.
“Soup’s ready when you are, but I’ll take a look at that ankle and head wound first; ankle definitely needs strapping.” He says, grabbing the small medical kit.
I want to tell him I want the soup first, but I know the cut on my head is still bleeding a little, and my ankle is throbbing like hell, so I sit on the chair he pulls out for me. I keep my hand on the knife in my pocket, and I’m sure he clocks it but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m going to start with your head,” he says, gently, as if he knows this could go either way. “I’m going to move your hair off the wound, clean it, and then put a small dressing on it, ok?”
I nod, and he begins, his large hands surprisingly gentle and efficient.
His palm cups the side of my head while he works, wiping the wound with something that smells of antiseptic and stings.
He doesn’t talk while he works, and I realize how hard I’m trying to focus through my exhaustion.
I may have my hand on my knife, but I doubt I could really use it.
Up close, I try to ignore how attractive his stubble makes him look and how his breath is tickling my neck. I want to shake my head to physically reject the thought, but he’s holding me steady, so I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment instead.
“All done.” He says as he tapes the dressing. “Put your foot up on the chair when you’re ready.”
I extend my leg very slowly, and his hand closes around my heel without putting any weight on the joint. He turns my foot a little, watching my reactions. When he seems satisfied, he stops.
“It’s a bad sprain, but at least it’s not broken. I’ll wrap it properly, but you need to rest it; stay off it for at least a couple of days.” He says thoughtfully.
“I’ll have to walk,” I say, knowing I can’t stay here and there’s no other way out but on foot.
“You won’t, I’ll put you over my shoulder if it becomes necessary, but you’re resting this ankle.” I look at him, but his expression isn’t unkind, just focused on the strapping.
When he’s finished, he leans back and repacks the medical kit before speaking. “I won’t keep at you tonight; you need food and sleep. But while we’re here…the rogues. How did you end up with them? Did they take you from home, or out on the road-“
“Off the road.” I interrupt, not wanting him to think I actually know them.
“Three weeks ago. Coming home from a supply run, from the city. Something came out of nowhere and hit the front of the truck. I woke up on a dirt floor at their compound. I was there for two, maybe three weeks. I escaped days ago, and I’ve been trying to get off the mountain. ”
“And they just kept you there the whole time?” He asks, and I know exactly what he means.
“Yes, they just kept me there in some kind of outhouse,” I tell him. “They seemed to keep their distance and talked about bringing a witch in to do something. That’s when I knew I had to escape. I didn’t want to find out what they meant.”
“A witch,” he repeats.
I nod and watch as he seems to think it through before he pushes his chair back, standing. “Alright,” he says, finally. “We’ll come back to it later. Let’s eat.”
He goes back to the stove and serves two bowls of soup, bringing mine over and setting it down with a spoon. “It’s plain. I didn’t think your stomach could cope with much tonight, so go easy.”
I look at the bowl and feel those damn tears welling up just at the thought of eating.
That’s how I know I was so close to the edge; my body knows it on a visceral level.
I pick up the spook with my left hand because my right is still holding my knife.
I take a mouthful; it’s hot and savory, and I immediately eat another few mouthfuls before my stomach threatens to revolt and I have to slow down.
Wilf has moved back toward the stove and is standing, eating his own soup.
“You said they were bringing in a witch?” He says after a while.
I nod in between mouthfuls, not really sure what more he thinks I can tell him. He seems to be mulling something over, but he doesn’t ask any more questions; he just refills my bowl when I empty it in record time and hands me a glass of water.
I put my spoon down and watch as he fills the sink. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you?” I say.
“No, not yet. I need to know more first, and besides, you wouldn’t even make it a mile.” He replies.
I weigh up his words as I hold the knife.
I don’t know who he is, and I don’t know what he’s going to do with me, but I’m clean and fed for the first time in weeks, my ankle is wrapped, and I’m warm.
My only option is to eat, sleep with the knife in my hand, and find out tomorrow what kind of man he is.
If I’ve jumped from the frying pan into the fire, and if this is worse or better than taking my chances with the rogues.
We’re smarter than them, Lar. Don’t forget it. My father’s words come back to me. I’m not sure it’s entirely true but being smart about all this is my only option right now. So, I pick the spoon back up and keep eating.