Layla
Monday morning hits me like a ton of bricks. The sun is shining hot and heavy when I roll out of bed at nearly 10:00, blinking rapidly to adjust to the startling glare. I slept like the dead. No dreams fractured my mind last night but…
I sit on the edge of the bed, dressed in a men’s shirt that smells like Dalton.
My throat bobs as I swallow against the sudden tightening there. A dull ache spreads up my inner thighs, and a bite mark I know is on my left breast sings with awakening pain.
Memories of last night crawl back to the forefront of my mind while I sit in the hot sun. Last night, a storm of epic proportions rolled over the property, leaving destruction in its wake. I rise from bed and walk to the window, seeing Curtis on the back lawn cleaning up branches and debris.
Deep puddles glisten in the sunlight–and beyond the yard?
The marsh is lost beneath a thick layer of fog, long silver tendrils rolling back from the tree line as the sun cuts through the shadows. By midday, it’ll be stifling, and the lingering darkness will have nowhere to hide.
I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, letting the warmth spread over my skin. It’s daytime. Every corner of the house will be lit. There will be no shadows. No ghosts.
I’m not sure if what happened to me last night was a dream. Being chased around the house by a ghost feels like something I made up, some revival of the deeply rooted fears I’ve kept buried since I came here and realized the house didn’t feel right.
But Dalton… that had been real. The bruises and bite marks on my body are real. The way I can still smell him on skin, taste him on my tongue, and feel his touch is the realest thing I’ve ever experienced. My fingertips absently trail down my neck as I continue to stare outside, pretending it’s still Dalton’s touch. I imagine his lips brushing over my cheek, his teeth grazing the top of my ear as he whispers my name and asks me who I belong to.
He made that clear last night. He made it clear with every stroke, every touch, and every whispered word of pure, unadulterated possession.
Something clatters to the ground in the hallway, and I turn toward my door, listening as Bailey curses under her breath and her footsteps quicken, then recede.
It’s Monday. A normal day. I have a shift tonight. I’ll be too busy to dive any deeper into the pool of madness that has been trying to pull me under lately.
I pull Dalton’s shirt over my head, laying it out on the bed, and shower.
Thirty minutes later I’m downstairs in the kitchen. Bailey leans against the counter, a smile beaming on her face as she recounts her glorious weekend in New Orleans. Sitting at the kitchen table, I sip a cup of coffee and listen to her sing-song voice, my skin warmed by the sun filling the pale green room with the kind of light needed to keep the shadows at bay.
But through the gloomy haze just beyond the archway leading into the dining room, I swear I see someone sitting at the table, their graceful hands tapping silently on the mahogany surface.
A blink, and the image is gone.
“Did you hear me?” Bailey teases, rolling her eyes as she cuts the turkey sandwich she’s been making for the last few minutes in half.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmur, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you want half of this.”
“Sure.” I give her my best smile as she hands me the sandwich. She begins to sit across from me when her watch beeps. Sighing, she stares down at the tablet propped against the coffee machine.
“Shoot, I better go check on that.” She looks down at her uneaten sandwich with a sigh.
“What’s going on?”
“Ms. Penny started a new medication this weekend under Vera’s direction. I’m not so sure about it. Her stats have been…. Well, here.” She hands me the tablet, which glows with the readings of Penny’s ECG. Her heart rate is surprisingly low. Notes on the side of the screen show her medication list and dosing chart.
“Why is she taking amobarbital?” I ask, looking up at Bailey with a markedly concerned expression.
“I don’t know.” Bailey’s voice is steady, but serious, and the glint behind her eyes shows me she’s just as concerned as I am. “I’ve been trying to make sense of it since I got here this morning. Vera was halfway out the door when I showed up, barely giving me a rundown of her stats from the weekend.”
I stand, pressing my hands to the table. “Penny has dementia. Why is she being treated for… psychosis? I’ve never seen anyone prescribed amobarbital outside of a psychiatric setting.” My mind reels. None of this feels right.
“I have the same question. I’ve been questioning her prescriptions since I started working here a year ago.” Bailey’s voice drops to a tone I’ve never heard from her before. It’s almost like she’s been wearing a mask of eternal sunshine the entire time, and now the mask has slipped. “She’s not deep enough in the throes of late stage dementia to require full sedation like this. Even so, this course would be highly inappropriate regardless of her mental state. She’s not a danger to herself or anyone around her, but she’s being treated as such. That’s what we’re doing, Layla, keeping this poor woman fully sedated.”
“But… no. This doesn’t make any sense–”
“She needs sunshine and socialization. Real food and activities.” Bailey runs her hands over her face. “I’ve been fighting for changes for a while now, and Vera gets in my way every time!”
“Vera?”
“Yes!” Bailey throws her hands in the air. “She’s been here for decades. Since she was our age. She’s the one who gets to talk to the doctor. She’s in control of everything.”
Vera’s sharp insistence that I leave her, and Aunt Penny, alone all weekend creeps back through my memories. “What the hell is going on?”
Bailey turns her expression to steel and shakes her head. “I don’t know, but this medication isn’t appropriate at all. Her doctor is coming today. I plan to talk to him about it directly. This should never have been prescribed, nor the blood pressure medication, nor any of the other obscure antidepressants.” Bailey sets her untouched sandwich down and tucks the tablet under her arm. “This is wrong.”
“I agree,” I tell her, reaching out to gently clutch her forearm in solidarity. “I have your back. I have connections all over. We can find her a new doctor.”
She nods, a grateful look in her eyes. “I’ll speak to her doctor first and see what can be done. I need to go check on her, though.”
I release my grip on her arm, and she walks away, leaving me alone and reeling in the kitchen.
My heart skips a beat as I sink into one of the chairs, resting my face in my hands.
I’m not sure how long I sit there letting my mind tangle over Aunt Penny’s situation. I hear the front door slam shut, the sound echoing down the snug hallway leading off the kitchen.
A deep, male voice sounds throughout the lower level of the house. “Hello?”
I walk to the foyer. This must be the doctor keeping my aunt in a state of inky, dark submission.
“Hello,” I say calmly, politely. “How can I help you?”
The man, an older gentleman in his sixties, with thick glasses and a burly build, looks me up and down. “I’m Dr. Ashford. And who are you?”
“Layla Bryant. The night nurse.”
“Ah,” he says, his wide mouth ticking into a smile.
“Nurse Bailey is upstairs with my aunt.” I eye him skeptically. “Do you know the way, or would you like me to escort you?”
He picks up on my clipped tone of voice and raises his wiry brows. “I know the way.”
I step out of his way as he crosses over to the staircase, casting me another appraising glance before walking with heavy tread up the stairs, disappearing from sight.
I spend the next hour going through each bottle of medication in the supply room, counting out the doses, trying to make sense of the gravity of the situation. How long has Aunt Penny been kept under a blanket of sedation like this? Months? Years? Why did it not occur to me before that this was a problem?
It might have been decades.
My stomach curls in on itself as I sit at the janky computer near the window where we’re supposed to keep our shift notes. I look back through the notes as far as they go and notice how little is written down whenever Vera has a shift. In fact, before Bailey came, there’s barely any records available.
A sharp screech erupts from the living room across the foyer from the supply room, sending a ripple of noise through the air. St. James Infirmary begins to play, skipping every few chords. “I’m-I’m-I’m goin’ down to St-St-St-James In-In-In-”
I pop out of the computer chair and haul ass to the living room, my heart in my throat. I swear I put the record away. I’m about to take it off the gramophone when Dr. Ashford’s voice booms from behind me, “A fan of Cab Calloway?”
I take the needle off the record. “No, actually.”
“Well, you’re missing out. He’s a legend in jazz.” Dr. Ashford steps to my side, peering over my shoulder at the record. “Oh, wow. An original record. This is older than I am.”
His dangerous close proximity is entirely unnerving as he reaches over my shoulder, slowly pressing the needle back down. “We should listen to it.”
“No, I have a lot to do before my shift–”
His hand presses against my lower back. “Turn it back on.”
My fight or flight senses kick in, my nerves going haywire. He’s at least four times my size. I can feel inhumane strength in his demanding touch as he begins to press me into the table where the gramophone rests. It doesn’t make any sense. He shouldn’t be this strong. He’s so old, and yet the force of his touch is enough to make me cry out in pain as he continues to push me down until I’m pinned.
“Get off–” I squeak, the edge of the table biting into my hip bones.
His other hand snaps to my neck, squeezing so hard my vision begins to go blurry. I choke, grabbing at his wrists and digging my nails into his skin until I draw blood. I can’t find the breath I need to scream when he leans over me, his tongue darting out and sweeping over the back of my neck.
“I can taste your fear.”
I rake my nails over his wrist, my heart leaping in desperation as my lungs scream for the oxygen he’s depriving me of. He wrenches my head to the side, crushing his lips to mine. His tongue jabs into my mouth, down my throat.
A silent scream rips from my body.
I bite down on his tongue, and he wrenches away, stumbling backward. His blood fills my mouth–acrid and disgusting–as my body crashes into the gramophone table. The record kicks back on, the song blasting through the room.
“You fucking bitch,” he growls, raising a meaty hand in my direction. Just as he begins to swing, his aim aligned with my face, the window behind us shatters, spraying glass all over my back, and hair. Something black whizzes through the air before falling in a heap in the center of the room.
I fall to my knees as Dr. Ashford staggers backward, his dark, beady eyes clouding with confusion and surprise. I clutch my bruised throat as I look up at the man. He takes one look at me and darts out of the room, tearing through the front door and out of sight.
My body begins to tremble as I kneel in a shower of glass.
I hear it crunching on the far side of the room and look up to find Dalton standing in the archway leading out of the dining room, his face a mask of concern. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but a door on the second floor slams shut, and then light footsteps are moving rapidly down the stairs.
“Stay here. Bailey is coming,” Dalton says hurriedly, and scoops up a dead crow, its blood soaking into his shirt as he turns with the bird and disappears into the shadows of the dining room once again.
I turn my gaze to the shattered window, its sharp edges coated in blood and black feathers.
Bailey skids to a stop in front of me, looking around wildly.
“Oh, my God, Layla! Are you all right?!”