Layleen
How many times has it already been? I am being chased, stalked by my nightmares, over and over again. I have no rest. No matter what I do––my past is now a part of my very being.
The loud voices outside the house seep through the open door in the servants' quarters—a warning sign not to go in that direction. I turn around, making sure my shabby old jogging shorts don't make even the slightest noise.
But then, the wooden plank under my feet suddenly creaks from the pressure of my weight. I freeze, absolutely frightened. I know every single plank that makes up the floors of the pack house. I know exactly which ones will make a noise when stepped on. How could I have forgotten? Silently, I scold myself for the careless mistake.
