Chapter 2 - THE AWAKENING OF ASHES
The first light of dawn began to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains,
casting long,
distorted shadows across the mahogany floor.
Emma’s eyes snapped open,
and for a split second,
they were vacant,
lost in the fog of a deep and dreamless sleep.
Then,
she saw me.
I was sitting in my wheelchair,
fully dressed,
watching her from the corner of the room with a glass of scotch in my hand.
She didn't scream,
she didn't scramble away in a panic,
she simply sat up slowly,
her face turning a pale shade of grey as reality set in.
She looked down at the bed,
then at me,
and then at her own trembling hands.
"I... I fell asleep,"
she whispered,
her voice raspy from lack of rest.
"You did,"
I replied,
my voice sounding like gravel grinding together.
"On my bed,
inside my private wing,
violating the only rule that keeps people alive in this house."
She stood up,
her legs wobbling,
and she had to grab the bedpost to keep from falling.
"I was checking the windows,"
she said,
trying to find her professional mask again.
"The wind was rattling them,
and I thought... I thought I saw a leak."
"Liar,"
I said,
taking a sip of the amber liquid.
"You were so tired your heart was ready to stop,
and you collapsed where you stood."
She didn't deny it this time,
instead,
she squared her shoulders,
looking me straight in the eye with that same stubborn defiance.
"Are you going to fire me?"
she asked,
and I could hear the desperation she was trying to hide.
If I fired her,
her mother’s care facility would kick her out within the week.
If I fired her,
the debt collectors would find her by nightfall.
"I should do more than fire you,"
I growled,
rolling my chair toward her until our knees almost touched.
"I should make sure you never find work in this city again."
She didn't flinch,
though I saw the way her throat moved as she swallowed hard.
"Then do it,"
she said,
her voice steadying.
"If you're as much of a monster as they say,
then put me out of my misery,
because I’m tired of being afraid of what tomorrow brings."
The air in the room grew heavy,
the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
I looked at her,
really looked at her,
seeing the dark circles under her eyes and the way her uniform hung loosely on her frame.
She was a fighter,
just like I had been before the bullet took my legs and my purpose.
"Get out,"
I said,
turning my chair away.
"Finish the laundry in the basement,
and don't let me see you in this wing again until tonight."
She lingered for a moment,
perhaps surprised that she still had a job,
or perhaps wondering why I hadn't followed through on my threats.
"Thank you,"
she whispered,
so softly I almost didn't hear it.
"Don't thank me,"
I snapped.
"I just don't want to deal with the paperwork of replacing you yet."
As she scurried out of the room,
I felt a strange sensation in my chest,
a flickering spark in the cold ash of my heart.
She was dangerous,
May you like
not because she had a weapon,
but because she made me feel something other than anger.
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