Book 19: We Failed

Oakley

Crisp morning air carries the scent of lavender and rosemary. I tuck my sheets in tight, carefully laying out the quilt I just finished and then fluffing my pillows. 

It’s a familiar morning routine that now feels totally foreign. I used to be able to skip over the squeaky floorboards, having memorized which ones make the most noise, but now it’s unfamiliar, like I’ve forgotten the very layout of my room. 

I gather my sweat-soaked sheets from the floor and walk into the hallway to toss them down the laundry chute, where busy hands that don’t belong to me will clean them within the hour, and once the sun sets and the laundry is gathered from the line, they’ll be left in front of my bedroom door to repeat the process.

Four nights of nightmares. Four nights of thrashing and waking up in a cold sweat.