His Little Heir

Mind's in the Gutter

      The clock winded down, but to her, it was never quick enough. Daya turned to look at it and watched as the red lights took their time to clear. Slowly, the disorienting lines came to read 4:12 a.m.

      When had she fallen asleep: half past the hour, or at midnight? Daya raised her face to get a better look. Every muscle seemed to bend and then break, allowing cold weakness to push them down. Her head collided with the sinister silk, and in a hiss, Daya swallowed her pride.

Or tried to.

     Her throat burned and scratched like an open wound. With tears falling, she tried to call out, only to be met with bitter coughs.

Leon was right.

      When he had touched her face, the back of his hand had felt cool in comparison. Why had Daya thought it was a fit of fatigue when the cold rag had put her at ease?

     She cursed herself as she reached for her phone with shaking hands, her teeth grinding with resolve. She placed her finger on the censor.

Incorrect.

     Daya pressed harder, using her other hand to hold it still.

Incorrect.

     She tried her hand at the passcode, struggling to home in on the numbers as they all blurred into one. Her thumb hovered over what looked to be a three. Then squinting, Daya selected four and one.

     Finding seven presented a challenge. She tensed, locking her elbows in an attempt to end her shaking. And with a gentle finger, she tapped what she hoped wasn't a nine.

Correct.

     Daya pressed down and gave the device a breathy command she prayed it would recognize.

     "Call Leon."

     She closed her eyes, and waited for the confirmation that would save her.

     "Okay, Calling Leon."

      The phone clicked and rang. Each made her heart drop with its passing, knowing that Daya didn't have much time.

One.

Two...

Four.

Five..

Eight.

     "Hey!" His voice allowed her to let go a breath that she forgot she was holding.

     "Oh my god, yes. Look, you were right and I'm really... really sick-

     "This is Leon, and it looks like I can't come to the phone right now so leave a mes-"

     Daya hung up before she could stop herself.

      She held down the button again, deciding to call her father. The microphone icon came to life and signaled for her to start speaking.

     "Call-"

     The screen became slick with sweat. Daya lunged for it, but the device had already collided with the oak planks.

      It sneared at her from the ground, "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

     She rolled her eyes: of course you don't.

      She turned to her covers and tested their weight, her muscles straining as her vision clouded. Daya pushed them off with white knuckles, gritting her teeth. She swung half of her weight to the side of the bed. Her fingers clawed at the floor, anxious to meet metal.