AYLA
Dad was in the VIP ward eleven stories away from the regular ward he'd been in before. The last time I'd visited was three months ago.
I replaced the wild lilies I'd brought the last time with fresh roses.
I sat on the foldable metal chair beside dad's bed. He looked better than the last time.
I sat in silence for only God-knows how long; then felt my eyes glass up as memories came back.
What did one say in visits like this?
Dr Dray had recommended I speak to him because it'll help speed up recovery.
"Hey, dad," I whispered, intertwining my fingers through his large, scarred ones that had an anchor tattoo on the wrist.
They fit. Perfectly. Like fire and rain. Winter and summer.
His body was warm—a contrast to how hot it used to be.
The incident at Don Cassian's hallway pushed itself, along with that darkness I enjoyed, into my mind.
You. Are. Mine.
Did he mean as a product for pleasure, or as a person he wanted? Which was it?
