"You know I can't let you go, right?" The man asked, voice gentler than I was expecting it to be. I looked up and he was staring right at me, eyes uncharacteristically kind.
I nod slowly, whispering, "Go ahead."
~~~
Ava Williams is just trying to l...
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The next week passed slowly. The cut on my forehead healed, leaving no mark behind. The only person I saw was Alma when she'd bring meals and let me shower. I was able to convince her to stay and talk on occasion when she wasn't busy. I told myself it was to allow more freedom but really I was starting to go stir crazy.
Alma was a widow when she started working for Jaime's family about thirty years ago. His father hired her to cook and promised protection for both Alma and her daughter.
"You remind me of her." Alma said one day, a small smile on her face. "Kind, beautiful, stubborn."
"I am not stubborn, just... headstrong." I countered, a smile tugging at my lips. I have gotten used to Alma's presence and found myself becoming more and more relaxed around her.
"She loved to garden. She had two green thumbs instead of one. She could grow anything, but she loved marigolds the most." Her voice grew wistful and full of sorrow.
"What happened to her?" I asked quietly. I wasn't sure she would answer. I didn't want to upset the only friend I had in this house.
Alma didn't respond right away, but when she did her voice was barely a whisper. "She got herself into some trouble and instead of asking for help, she just assumed that she could handle it by herself." I could hear sadness and anger in her voice. "It's been almost ten years since I lost her." Alma stared at her hands in her lap, tears forming in her eyes.
I felt a prickle in my own eyes as I gently clasped her hand in mine. "I'm sorry. I know what it's like to lose someone close. The pain never goes away, not completely."
Alma didn't look at me, but her hand tightened around mine before she let go. She slowly got to her feet and brushed off her apron. "I better head back."
I held my hands out for her, but she only grabbed one and handcuffed it to the bed. My eyes widened in surprise as my free hand fell into my lap. As Alma walked back toward the door, she suddenly turned back. "I almost forgot. I thought you might want some entertainment." She pulled a weathered book from her apron and handed it to me.
I looked at the battered cover. It was a small, mass-produced paperback copy of Wuthering Heights but it could've been a first edition with how reverently I held it. I flipped through the dog-eared pages, breathing in the familiar scent of paper and ink.
"It's always been one of my favorites." Alma said before she left, leaving me alone again.
"Thank you." I whispered to the empty room, a single tear sliding down my cheek.
*****
I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me on the bed, holding the book with one hand and awkwardly propping up my head with the other. I was completely absorbed in the story when the lock on the door clicked. I set the book aside, eager to talk about the book with somebody. When I looked up, it wasn't Alma in the doorway, but Jaime. My body tensed at the sudden appearance of the man I hadn't seen since my escape attempt.
