The Shearing

Nine

A gunfire forces me awake.

The sound sends me upright in a matter of seconds, firing my nerves up into action as if I'm already accustomed to being harried in this realm. My sudden movement drills my spinning head, and the way my left wrist becomes difficult to move tells me the bandages have been redressed.

I thought I'd wake up in my room and mourn for work like my routine in any normal day, but as I slowly recount everything that has happened, I feel overwhelmed. Everything's bound to change.

Weights are fastened upon my will to stand, and my body's coaxing me to plop back on the welcoming sheets. Nonetheless the thought of the gunfire holds me still. Either the shot comes from somewhere outside the apartment, or it's just the amplified sound echoing throughout this lair.

Flecks of light stabs my bleary sight as I squint by the wrought window pane. Groggily, as I rub my eyes, I turn to my right side, and the emptiness of the sheets tells me I'm alone in the bed. I brush my hands past my ears to muffle the noise coming outside the apartment, a cacophony of bickers, of howls and of chatter, which causes me to crease my eyebrows.

Forcing myself to move feels like dragging a wet sack of cement. I rake my hands through my matted hair, fingers tangling with my locks. It's a first for me to sleep on a different bedroom from a completely different place as Oakley and I aren't really the sort of people who would leave their homes for even a day. Now I doubt it if we would even have the chance to come back. 

I gently rub a hand on my shoulder through the hole of my turtleneck, feeling the bumps of the mark I receive yesterday. Pain still ignites whenever I apply the slightest pressure, making me wince and stop.

"Oliver," I weakly start; my voice comes out dryly.

Dragging myself across the bed, I plant my feet on the cold aging floor and survey the rest of the room for signs of him. But there's no one around. The portion of the room ahead of me is less illuminated as the room lights are turned off, and the only illumination are the flecks of orange coming from outside through the window behind me. He's probably down to get breakfast or something, maybe to steal perhaps? We didn't really arrive here with a wad of bills, and Oliver seems pretty pro in the art of thievery.

Since there's nothing else left for me to do, I opt to lay myself back on the overused bed, letting my lazy will claim me as I stare blankly on the shadows that adorn the ceiling.

I'll weave up a plan to reach Oakley, wherever she is. It's barely two days since the Holland family name has earned its place in the Kill Queue. So I still have high hopes of finding Oakley out there. It'll probably take us some time though, since she's currently overseas.

I'll find you, Oakley. I mutter within my head, and it is when I hear the door fling open.

Before I could straighten up, an unfamiliar voice slams my ears. "You know, I'm not paid here to watch you sleep all day."

With my muscles tensing, I bolt upright in an instant, and a small scrawny woman clad in black dress stands primly by the door that's left ajar. Her creaseless eyes dart to mine; long hair drapes down her arms that's crossed on her chest, and her complexion, though only illuminated by little light from outside, tells me she's an easterner.

It's neither her mocking tone nor the fact that she's a stranger standing by our room that intrigues me, but rather the mention of "paid."