Chapter 24

Brook came awake with a scream, startling Lance who stood at the table, buttering a piece of bread.

“Brooklyn?” Lance moved towards her, still carrying the knife.

“NO!” Brook screamed hysterically. “NO! Don’t cut off my feet!”

Lance stopped several feet from the bed. “What? What are you talking about? I have no intentions of cutting off your feet.” He stared at her for a minute in confusion and then relaxed. “You must have been having a nightmare, probably triggered by the earlier episode when I treated your feet. You’re fine!”

Brook’s breathing slowed; she realized that her legs weren’t tied down and that the knife Lance was wielding was a butter knife still smeared with some of the yellow substance. “Oh my god! What a horrid dream. It was terrible. Terrible! I don’t even want to think about it.” The dream had been so real, she was shaking.

Brook struggled into a sitting position, moving her purse to her side. Lance went to the kitchen area and traded the knife for a cup of water. He placed it into her hands and she lifted it to her lips. I’m so thirsty! I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. She downed the contents in a few gulps.

“More please?” She held the cup out to him, her hand trembling slightly.

“In a minute.” He gazed at her and she involuntarily shrank back.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I’m not,” she lied. A dizzy spell hit her. Holding very still, she waited for the feeling to pass. Lance kept staring at her, making her uncomfortable.

“I’d like you to take a pill for me,” he said. “It’s almost midnight and I need to get some sleep. I’d worry less about you if I knew you weren’t suffering. Now will you take this pill for me?”

What choice do I have? Brook thought bitterly. He could overpower her and force it on her whether she wanted it or not. Maybe it was poison and would kill her. Maybe she wanted to die anyway. Better to die of an overdose than slashed to bloody pieces like his last victim. Maybe he would kill her in her sleep and she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of dying. She spoke none of these thoughts, merely nodded.

He went to the kitchen area and came back with half a pill and more water for her to wash it down. The cup shook in her hand, but she drank it dry before handing it back to him. He took the mug then hesitated, standing over her. She tried to ignore him as she settled back into the soft mattress.

The next thing she knew, the man was back at her bedside, raising her head from the pillow. She didn’t remember falling to sleep, but she must have.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yes,” she said as he helped her into a sitting position. “Is it morning?”

“Very early in the morning,” he answered. “Not even light out yet.”

Brook felt a wave of self-pity at her situation, her pain, and her frailty. It was so strong it brought new tears to the surface. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.

“I want you to take some broth,” he told her. “It’ll help you get your strength back.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached to the bedside table for a mug.

“No!” she cried, not wanting him close and not wanting whatever he was offering. She remembered with horror the dream about her feet. Then, worried that she might anger him, she continued with what she felt was a logical argument, “I don’t know what’s in it.”

“Just broth,” he replied, his eyes sympathetic. “Regular old homemade chicken soup minus the noodles. Water, chicken, a few vegetables, and some seasonings. I’ll take a sip first so you’ll know it’s alright.”

He filled the spoon from the cup and tipped it over his upturned mouth. She felt herself salivate at the mere sight of the golden liquid.

“See?” he said. “It’s good.”

She nodded, and he began spooning broth into her mouth. The experience was almost an orgasm of taste to her tongue; she was hungrier than she knew. The rich warm broth with its salty flavor and appetizing smell was better than the finest meal she had ever eaten.

“I can try to feed myself, if you don’t mind,” she ventured tentatively.

“Okay, good.” He placed the mug in her hands. Her arms felt weak and sore, but the trembling had subsided. She took a few spoonfuls of the delicious concoction, then laid the spoon aside and drank the rest from the thick rounded edge of the heavy mug. And still, he sat there on the edge of the bed. She wished he would move.

Handing the cup back to him, she lay down again and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Finally, he got up and carried the dishes into the kitchen area. She breathed a sigh of relief and rolled painfully to her side, facing the room. She didn’t want him sneaking up on her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off again, the warm cozy sound of a crackling fire mingling with her dreams.