Killing Sarai

46

Sarai

When I wake up the next morning the sun is bright through the massive window even though the curtains have been drawn. I’m alone in the bed, but I know I’m not alone in the house. It was Victor’s dress shoes tapping against the floors outside the room that woke me. My heart is exhausted, but my mind and my body feel refreshed. I can’t remember the last time I slept that soundly.

I don’t think I ever have.

I raise my body from the mattress, untangling myself from the sheet. I can’t believe I did that last night, but I did and it’s over with and I can either face Victor and not be ashamed, or hide away inside this room for the rest of my life.

I choose the realistic.

As I step outside of the room, I wonder why we didn’t get up before dawn to leave like he had planned.

He’s sitting in the living room alone when I walk in, fully dressed in his best suit with his usual bags sitting on the floor next to his feet, minus the bag with the money. There’s a newspaper in his hands and a mug of black coffee on the table next to the chair.

“Why didn’t we leave earlier?” I ask walking the rest of the way into the room.

He lowers the newspaper and then decides to fold it halfway and set it on the table next to the coffee.

“I thought you could use the sleep.”

My face flushes inwardly, failing at my attempt to not be ashamed of my sexual tirade, but really I doubt his answer had anything to do with that.

“Thank you,” I say.

I raise my eyes to him again. “Looks like you’ll have to buy me another pair of shoes,” I point out, pressing my bare toes into the cool, hard floor, my hands clasped together lying on my backside.

The shoes he bought me before had been left at Samantha’s when we had to get out of there in a hurry. I’ve not had the best of luck with shoes as of late.

“It has already been taken care of,” he says crossing one leg over the other and straightening his vest.

I gaze around the room, looking for department store bags or maybe some women’s clothes that had been left here for whatever reason.

A short middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue scrub uniform comes through the front door carrying a gaudy purse on one arm and several oversized store bags on the other. A set of keys jangle in her hand after she closes the door with her hip. She manages to drop the keys into her purse, twisting her wrist awkwardly to reach it.

“Oh, you must be Izabel,” the woman says bright-eyed. “I’m Ophelia. It’s nice to meet you.” I nod and introduce myself even though she apparently already knows my name, well the name that Victor gave me, anyway.

She drops her purse in the middle of the floor and walks across the large space into the living room towards me, the store bags still dangling on her arm and by the looks of it, starting to cut off the circulation.

“You were right about the size,” she says looking to Victor. She sets the bags down on the immaculate couch. “And I have a daughter your size,” she says looking at me now, “so hopefully I chose wisely. Meleena was a handful growing up, that’s for sure.” She gestures her hands dramatically. Rings adorn her fingers. “Of course, it was my fault for raising her on Versace and Valentino but she is the most envied girl when she walks into any room, so I suppose the shit she gave me and my bank account was worth it. Here, let me see you.” I try to conceal the awkward look I know I’m giving her as she pulls a cute sun dress of sorts from one bag and holds it up against me.